9 Days Whipped Tortured And Chained By A Psychopath

Okay, maybe "whipped, tortured, and chained" sounds a bit dramatic. But trust me, for nine days, my sourdough starter, affectionately nicknamed Bartholomew "Barty" Buttons, had me feeling like I was held hostage in my own kitchen!

It all started innocently enough. I’d always been intimidated by sourdough. The mystical feeding schedules, the precise temperatures – it seemed like a science experiment gone rogue.

Day 1: The Arrival of Barty

The recipe called for a week of dedication. Feed Barty twice a day, discard half, watch him bubble and grow. The discarding part felt wasteful, like throwing away a tiny, yeasty pet I was supposed to nurture.

My kitchen became a bizarre laboratory. I had scales, thermometers, and a jar that was slowly transforming from a simple mix of flour and water into something… alive.

Day 3: The Great Rise (and Fall)

Barty doubled in size! I was so proud, I almost cried. I envisioned rustic loaves, crusty and fragrant, gracing my table.

Then, he collapsed. Deflated like a punctured balloon. Was it something I said? Something I did? The horror!

The Torture of the Feeding Schedule

The feeding schedule dictated my life. Weekends, evenings, even early mornings before work. The starter demanded its flour and water.

I started setting alarms. My friends joked I was more devoted to Barty than to them. It felt true.

Day 5: The Discard Dilemma

The discard! Mountains of it! I felt compelled to find creative uses. Sourdough pancakes? Sourdough crackers? Sourdough… everything?

My freezer began to resemble a sourdough discard storage facility. It was getting out of hand.

The Chains of Expectation

I felt chained to the expectation of perfect sourdough. All those beautiful loaves I saw online mocked me from my Instagram feed.

Was I measuring correctly? Was my water too warm? Too cold? The questions swirled in my head like the sourdough itself.

Day 7: Signs of Life (Again!)

Hope flickered. Barty started showing signs of life again, albeit a sluggish, grumpy sort of life. Tiny bubbles appeared, clinging to the sides of the jar like shy, reluctant cheerleaders.

I adjusted my feeding schedule slightly. I whispered encouraging words to the jar. Don't judge. We all do it.

Day 9: The Bake-Off (and the Relief)

Finally, the day arrived. The bake-off. I carefully mixed the dough, shaped it gently, and crossed my fingers.

The aroma filled the kitchen as the bread baked. It smelled… promising! I pulled it from the oven, a golden-brown loaf, slightly lopsided but undeniably bread.

The Verdict

It wasn't perfect. But it was sourdough! I sliced a thick piece and slathered it with butter. The taste? Slightly tangy, slightly chewy, and deeply satisfying.

The relief was immense. Nine days of perceived torture, and I had bread. I survived Barty's demands.

Okay, maybe it wasn’t *actually* torture. But Barty taught me a valuable lesson: sometimes, the most rewarding things in life require a little bit of commitment, a little bit of chaos, and a whole lot of flour.