For the first time in so long, I feel a lightness and a brightness. I think it’s the physical manifestation of hope—there’s an almost electric undercurrent in the air, as if everyone was standing in a silent room and suddenly there’s faint (really good, very catchy) music playing.
If I narrow in to the smallest possible sphere of my life for the past 6 months—to just this house and this street and the daily experience of sleeping and waking and cooking and existing and so on—I’d actually say that life has felt joyful and good. If I stay in the exact present moment (which a small baby pretty much demands most of the time), then I’m generally anchored by pleasant sensations, as if the day is a quilt stitched together out of discrete bits of thread—a cup of tea, one length of thread; a walk over to the small harbor, one length of thread; a chapter of “A Burning” by Megha Majumdar, one length of thread; a run down Moores Lane then past the Island’s End golf course; another length of thread.
But the second I look up, so to speak, the rest of the world floods in—feeling dark and dismal and terrifyingly unsteady and without any foreseeable break from it all on the horizon.
I have felt both grateful and lucky that this odd, surreal time in the world has coincided with a moment of my own life that neither requires much from the outside world, nor allows for it.
But there’s been an insistent voice at the back of my mind that never entirely goes quiet, whispering that things have gone awry and that I should be a little bit afraid. Although I always remain—for better or worse—deeply and fundamentally optimistic about everything, that voice is hard to ignore.
This is all to say that the presence of real, tangible hope—in the form of change and something new and different ahead—is such a relief that I feel myself exhaling, even though I didn’t realize I was holding my breath.
I went out on the water this morning; at 7 AM the day was already warm enough to wear a bathing suit with no sweatshirt. The mist was rising and the shady green shoreline of Shelter Island appeared as verdant as if it were high summer. What do they call this? Pathetic fallacy? When the weather mimics your mood?
It did seem as though the entire universe was cheerful upon waking up today, and I plan to spend as much as the day outside as possible to soak it all in. I’m going to take a hike and meet an old friend for sandwiches outside by the yacht club and spend an full hour this afternoon riding my bike before leaping joyfully into the water. JOYFULLY, I tell you. Watch me!
And as if that weren’t enough wild excitement for one person to handle, listen to this. Months ago, I stopped feeding my sourdough starter because…I have a tiny human to keep alive and that seemed like asking a bit much of myself.
I left it in a mason jar on the top shelf of the fridge, wedged behind my mom’s homemade blackberry jam and a few containers of coconut yogurt, and forgot about it. I kept catching sight of it when I shuffled groceries around. I’d think, “ugh, throw the starter out!”, as it had developed a half-inch layer of dark black liquid.
Developing a layer of liquid on top of your starter is completely normal—it’s called “hooch” because it’s the alcohol produced by the wild yeast as it ferments. The liquid is an indicator that your starter is hungry, so you can either pour it off and feed it, or stir it into the starter and feed it. The hooch should look light in color; the longer it has gone without feeding, the darker it’ll look. Mine was several months old and had been sporting the inch of black liquid for weeks.
I assumed it was a goner. Definitely past the point of revival.
But not so! I was about to toss it, and as I poured some water into the jar to loosen it, it occurred to me that I might as well just try feeding it. So I did—I stirred in a bit of water, transferring a few tablespoons into a clean jar, added 100g of warm water and 100g of rye flour (Maine Grains, holla!) and gave it a good stir.
Six hours later, the starter had doubled in size. Guys, IT IS STILL ALIVE. Months in a cold refrigerator with no food or love or TLC couldn’t kill it.
The world is full of miracles and hope and…sourdough chocolate chip cookies. (Yes, they’re better than regular chocolate chip cookies and yes, you should absolutely keep your discard and bake with it instead of ever tossing it.)
Okay, make these. Eat some, warm from the oven, and relish this unfamiliar sensation of good things rising slowly but steadily.
Brown Butter Sourdough Chocolate Chip Cookies
1/2 cup (113g) unsalted butter
1 cup (227g) unfed/discard sourdough starter
1 egg
1 egg yolk
1/4 cup (50g) granulated sugar
1 cup (213g) dark brown sugar
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
1 1/2 cups (180g) all-purpose flour
3/4 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon salt
3/4 cup (127g; 4 ounces) semisweet chocolate chips
3/4 cup (127g; 4 ounces) dark chocolate chips
flaky sea salt, for sprinkling
Whisk together the flour, baking soda, and salt.
In a saucepan or skillet, melt 1/2 cup (1 stick) of the butter over medium-low heat, swirling constantly until the butter foams and begins to form browned solids on the bottom of the pan and smell fragrant and nutty. Immediately pour into a heatproof bowl and let cool for at least 10 minutes.
In the bowl of a stand mixer, beat together the sourdough starter, egg, egg yolk, and both sugars. Add the cooled browned butter and vanilla and beat well.
Add the dry ingredients, mixing until just combined, then fold in the chocolate chips.
Chill the dough for at least 1 hour (or up to overnight). Once chilled, preheat the oven to 350 degrees F.
Scoop the dough out using an ice cream scoop into golf ball-sized rounds onto a parchment-lined baking sheet, leaving a few inches between each as they’ll spread a bit.
Sprinkle flaky sea salt over the tops of the cookies and bake for about 10 minutes, or until slightly golden brown on the edges. As soon as you take them out of the oven, tap the pan firmly on top of the stove or counter to make the cookies “slump” a bit if they’re domed (you can also tap the tops of them firmly using the back of a spoon).
Let cool until firm enough to move, then transfer to a wire rack to finish cooling.