Tag Archives: Personal Essays

Oh, No! No Sourdough!

Posted on by
Reply

“Convince me that you have a seed there, and I am prepared to expect wonders.”

—Henry David Thoreau (1817–1862). American essayist, naturalist, and author of Walden, whose writings celebrated attentive living and the quiet wisdom of nature.

Superstitions surrounding Friday the 13th do not concern me. If my middle name weren’t Lee, it would be Lucky. I walk under ladders, ignore black cats, shop, travel and do all the things others won’t do. I will keep right on doing what I’ve always done. But this year, my luck may have run out. Or not.

The day started out on as good a note as possible. I fed my sourdough starter in my usual fashion even though the kitchen was a tad cooler than usual. A slow rise never kept me from planning ahead for scrumptious sourdough pancakes.

After our usual morning routines, Gary and I went out for lunch and returned home. In the afternoon, I preheated the oven to 350° so that it would be ready for whatever it was that I planned to cook for dinner.

Then I went about my affairs as usual. That is until I smelled a wonderful aroma wafting out from the kitchen. Bread? Cake? I was fascinated because I hadn’t started dinner. What could it possibly be?

Just as I walked into the kitchen to see what had lured me there, I exclaimed,

“Oh. No. My sourdough!”

When I turned the oven to preheat after lunch, I forgot that hours earlier I had put my sourdough starter in there on “proof” to get a faster rise.

What I saw when I opened the oven door was not fermentation. It was transformation.

The jar no longer held a living starter. It held evidence of my carelessness. The sides were lacquered in amber and gold, as if the sourdough had tried to climb out and been stopped mid-escape. A caramelized tide line marked how high it had risen before heat overtook it. What had once been soft and elastic was now fixed in place, streaked and hardened like candle wax after a long vigil.

Inside, the starter had transformed into something strangely geological. A pale, spongy dome baked solid at the edges, its surface torn open in small craters where trapped gases had burst and frozen in time. The smell was unmistakable: toasted flour, faint sweetness, a whisper of bread that almost existed.

I stood there looking at a crime scene, fully aware that the culprit and the witness were one and the same.

I had been the one who coaxed these mountain spores into life years ago, watching their first tentative bubbles gather and rise as if they had somewhere important to be. I had fed them, talked about them, and trusted them to do their quiet work while I went about mine.

They had made their way into breads and cakes and cookies and scones and cinnamon rolls, earning praise far beyond my mountaintop kitchen. And yet, on this particular Friday the 13th, I had forgotten them entirely, leaving a small natural wonder behind, unnoticed, to the fate of an oven I had set to preheat.

For a time, I did nothing but stand there, laughing at my stupidity while absorbing the lesson. There seemed little left to do but clean the jar and move on.

But just when I was feeling the depth of loss, I remembered. Flakes. Sourdough flakes.

A year or so ago I had dried some starter and set it aside, more as an experiment than anything else. I never imagined needing them. They sat unnoticed in a small jar, ordinary and still, offering no hint that they might hold anything alive.

I weighed a small portion and put it in a bowl with an equal amount of warm water. I watched as they softened and disappeared into a cloudy mixture. Then I added an equal amount of flour, creating a pasty potential. It felt more like a laboratory ritual than a kitchen rescue. Truthfully, I wasn’t certain anything would happen. But I held on to hope, realizing that those flakes were the only thing left for me to try.

At first, nothing happened.

The mixture sat on the counter looking exactly as one might expect flour and water to look when stirred together: pale, still, and entirely unremarkable. I told myself not to expect too much. After all, these were only dried remnants, fragments of something that had once been alive. Whatever vitality they possessed had long since faded.

But some time later–hours, perhaps less–I noticed a change so small it might easily have been missed. A tiny bubble appeared along the edge of the bowl. Then another. The surface loosened almost imperceptibly, as if taking a slow breath after a long sleep.

By the next morning, there was no denying it. The mixture had awakened. Fine bubbles traced delicate pathways through the paste, and a faint, familiar aroma rose to meet me—not flour, not water, but something living. Something remembering what it had been.

What astonished me most was not simply that the sourdough culture had returned, but how quickly it did so. Years ago, when I first coaxed those mountain spores into existence, I waited days for signs of life, peering into the jar with the anxious patience of a novice. This time, revival came with confidence, as though the culture already knew what it was meant to do.

Up from the flakes it arose.

What had seemed lifeless only hours earlier now stretched upward, gathering strength from invisible work. I found myself watching it the way one watches a garden after rain—not interfering, not hurrying, simply witnessing growth. A living culture once again, carrying within it all the strength and possibility of its ancestral spores.

And standing there, I realized that nothing about it felt accidental. Life, given the smallest chance, had simply resumed its work.

Watching it rise again, I began to understand that what I had witnessed was more than a small kitchen recovery. I had baked the starter, yes. But I had not baked the possibility.

Something essential had been preserved long before the mistake was made. Tucked away almost absentmindedly, those flakes had carried forward what mattered most. Given warmth, patience, and a little attention, the sourdough culture simply resumed its work, as though interruption were only a pause and not an ending.

It struck me then how stubbornly life finds its way back, even after neglect, even after carelessness. What appears lost may only be waiting for the right conditions to begin again.

Perhaps that is the real lesson Friday the 13th had to offer me this year. Not bad luck. Not superstition confirmed. Just a moment of carelessness and a jar of forgotten flakes, both filled with truth. We measure our mistakes with finality, and we assume that one moment of inattention defines the whole story.

Nature does not agree.

Self-Serve

Posted on by
4

“Talk to yourself like you would to someone you love.”

— Brené Brown (b. 1965), American research professor, author, and speaker on vulnerability, courage, and self-worth.

Go ahead! Run reference if you must. You’ll probably confirm what you already suspect. More than once, I’ve asked you to lean in real close and listen as I shout out for all the world to hear something that I think no one in the world should hear. Private should stay private, right? Not always. Here I am about to pull you in and do it all over again.

But this time it’s different. It’s one of those insights I’ve had before—the kind that first comes as a shadow of knowledge, and then, with a turn, reveals itself fully, clad in nothing more than the simplicity that truth always wears.

That’s exactly what happened to me. I was all by myself. My partner Gary—Remember? My Tennessee Gary?—had gone off to Minnesota for his 60th high school reunion and for a family reunion to boot. So it came to be that I dined alone.

I plated my entree with all the attention that might bespeak the 5-star restaurant that I know my kitchen will never be. Yet, I keep right on striving.

The golden-crusted whiting stretched across the plate like a painter’s confident stroke, its edges crisp, its center promising tender flake with the first touch of a fork. Beside it, a tangle of violet cabbage shimmered as though the skillet had coaxed from it not just flavor but light itself—earthy, sweet, and just slightly wild. A sprig of thyme leaned in, whispering green against the purple, while a single blossom, fuchsia and unapologetic, dared to remind me that even supper alone can flirt with beauty.

Then, an hour or so later, I was ready for dessert. Don’t you dare tell anyone—especially Gary—but since I was alone, I decided that a store-bought dessert would do.

It was tiramisu with all the makings of a showstopper—moist sponge, creamy layers, a hint of coffee and chocolate—but there it sat, in its plastic box, reminding me that sometimes dessert doesn’t need fanfare to be enjoyed.

“Fine. I’ll enjoy it straight from the plastic box.”

Just when I was about to grab a fork (but not a plastic one, mind you), I decided that it needed proper plating, too.

It only took a second for me to turn store-bought into five-star. The tiramisu rose in creamy, coffee-kissed layers, draped with curls of chocolate that caught the light just so. Against the deep black plate, a scarlet bloom blazed like a velvet exclamation point, transforming a humble slice into a scene-stealer. Every bite promised richness, every glance was pure seduction on porcelain.

In no time at all, I had done for myself what I do for us all the time. In no time at all, I had done for myself what I would have done for me and Gary if we had been sharing the table that night. I had lifted something ordinary into something memorable. I had taken the plastic box off the table and replaced it with care, intention, beauty. In that small act—so quick, so simple—I realized that I had given myself the very same attention I so easily give to the life we are building together. And I had done it when it mattered just as much—I was alone.

We forget, don’t we? Especially when we are alone. We fall into the trap of thinking that we have to wait for company, for celebration, for some special someone before we let ourselves live five-star. But that’s not so. We don’t have to wait, nor should we. We should use the special napkins every day, especially when we’re alone. We should have flowers on the table every day, especially when we’re alone. We should bring forth all of life’s little graces, especially when we’re alone.

We should always see ourselves as the guest of honor—especially when we are alone, even when the chair across from us is empty.

We should remind ourselves that this kind of self serve isn’t selfish and it’s not uppity. It’s simply a way that we can say “Yes” to ourselves. It’s pulling the good wine from the rack, even on a Tuesday night. It’s plating coleslaw in a little bowl instead of scooping it from the mixing dish. It’s lighting the fireplace in October simply because the first chill makes you want to. It’s cueing up Black Gospel or Acoustic Chill while kneading bread, letting the room swell with music as much as with sourdough. It’s slipping into my favorite blue linen shirt, even if no one but Ruby will see me in it. These are the gestures that matter most—especially when we are alone.

These “alone” moments count. Every single one of them counts. And if we don’t serve ourselves with dignity, who else will?

So, My Dear Readers, let me raise a glass to the hydrangeas cut and arranged, to the figs sliced and drizzled, to the silver chest opened on an ordinary weeknight. Here’s to the quiet supper for one that still deserves a sprig of thyme, and to the tiramisu that—freed from its plastic coffin—reminds me that even the humblest store-bought sweet can rise to the level of celebration.

Because self serve is never second best.
It is the altar we lay with linen and light.
It is the chalice filled, the bread broken, the sweetness offered.
It is the music of a knife against porcelain,
the fragrance of thyme rising like incense,
the candle flame trembling like a prayer.

Let the plate gleam.
Let the glass catch the last gold of evening.
Let the blossom burn bright against the dark.
Let the feast of one be as radiant as the feast of many.

Be the guest of honor. Your own.
Be the blessing at the table. Your own.
Be the flame, the flower, the feast. Your own trinity.

Even when we are alone.
Especially when we are alone.

Let’s never–for even a moment–forget:
We are enough.

A Glimpse Beneath the Covers (Book Covers, That Is)

Posted on by
4

“Embrace the glorious mess that you are.”

–Elizabeth Gilbert (b. 1969. American author best known for her memoir Eat, Pray, Love, which became a global bestseller and cultural phenomenon. Her work blends introspection, humor, and an embrace of life’s messiness—much like the spirit behind my modest The Third Time’s the Charm.)

Guess what arrived in the mail today?

(Hint: it isn’t another gardening catalog—though those are always welcome at my house.)

It’s the printed proof of my next book, The Third Time’s the Charm. At 440 pages, it’s a whopper! This brand-new collection of personal essays is drawn from my The Wired Researcher Series. Today, I’m delighted to share the cover art with you. Once again, the art is by acclaimed caricaturist Mike Caplanis. Although he was inspired by the essay “What If I’m Not Who You Think I Am?”, the book’s cover captures the spirit of this collection perfectly—thoughtful, mischievous, and comfortably tucked between the sheets.

This book is close to my heart. It’s a gathering of essays written—yes, literally, as you know already—in bed, where I do my most creative thinking and, often, my most honest writing. I hope these pieces reflect a voice that’s warm, a little witty, deeply rooted in everyday life, and shaped by the rhythms of memory, nature, and reflection.

William Faulkner once referred to his childhood landscape as “a postage stamp of native soil,” and in this collection, I’ve claimed one of my own. These essays rise from the soil that grounds me—Appalachian roots, coal camp memories, gardening, grief, and joy—and reach toward readers everywhere. I hope these pieces help you discover something true in your own story, too.

The book will be available very soon—just a few weeks away. For now, consider this a soft unveiling and a warm invitation. I’ll share more details soon, including where and how to get your copy. Until then, feel free to admire the cover, fluff your pillows, and prepare to join me—in spirit and in story—In Bed.

P.S. If you’d like to be among the first to know when the book is available, keep an eye here—or better yet, follow me if you’re not doing so already.