slow ferment

It feels good to sit in the kitchen waiting for the ciabatta loaves to finish their final proof, and the onions for tomorrow's "Roasted Onion and Asiago Miche" to finish roasting. Ryan and Christen do food like I want to - bright vegetables from grocery stores that feel like markets; oatmeal and flour and dried cranberries scooped from the big plastic bulk food bins. Homemade salsa and homemade hummus. The food processor stays out on the tiny counter that wasn't big enough for a toaster. 

Fresh bread we sometimes buy and slowly I've been attempting to make it. I created my own wild yeast (the Bay area's supposed to have an extraordinary strain) starter, and after babying it for a week, it's finally ready to start going into bread. The first sourdough loaves will be ready to shape within the hour.

Christen's off for most of the afternoon, and we catch a few NPR shows between job-searching and cooking and laundry and dishes, but nothing to Ryan's seven hours each day. We laugh at his intensity over dinner. Last night we went back to the class on suffering at the Presbyterian church. It was suggested that the kingdom of God might be built with a lot of laughter. We all thought we ought to work on that.

Another glitch in the visa-getting. John from the visa-service in DC said the embassy sent it back to them asking for the original documents . . . which were attached. He said he's submitting it again - this time for one-day service. I think about the prayer in Elizabeth Gilbert's Eat, Pray, Love, which was actually a petition to the Universe, and think I might try. I'm signing you all on.