Apparently my mother dough has died.
I've not been able to verify this fact due to being 150 miles away but according to the GF it has taken on the appearance of paint and the smell of something rotten.
'I think I've killed your sourdough,' she said.
I tried to stop the disappointment registering in my voice but am unsure as to the extent of my success.
'That's, erm OK,' I replied blearily this morning. 'I'll just make another one and then nurture it for weeks.'
Which, in a way is good, because it means I can write about it in real time. As it happens. Stir for Stir, bubble for bubble.
Sympathy is both accepted and encouraged either here or via Twitter. I shall now go and don a black cape and a look of sadness.
Also this - A street vending machine that makes pizza. Cool.