The Death and Resurrection of my Friend Joe

immortality through a sourdough starter

My friend Joe and I immediately bonded when we met over thirty years ago. Fellow Cancerians, we shared a birthday —albeit I was a decade older. He was an actor. I was a playwright. He became my brother, sticking with me even after his closest friend at the time, and I broke up. 

Three years ago, he died. Just like that. Damn him. A widow maker, though he left a lot of people devastated, he left no widow. During shiva his sister asked me what of his I wanted. “His starter,” I said. 

We went into his fridge and there it was sweet smelling and putty colored in a plastic container.

I mixed our starters. I kept it going—that is until I went to Europe for five months and came back to black fuzzy and stinky disaster.

In my attempt to revive the muck, I scraped the offending bits away and transferred him into a clean jar and commenced to feed, a little more aggressively than I was used to. Only on the fifth day did I smell some flowers perhaps a touch of fruit. But it still wasn’t right. Christy told me to have faith. I tried. I would. I did. What the hell, it wasn’t ready but I went in for the bake. For the occasion, I tried a new recipe from The Perfect Loaf’s Maurizio Leo’s book and you know what? My bread game was better than ever. There’s a lot more to say, actually about 1500 words so far, and hopefully, one day, I can take you deeper on this journey of mine. But meanwhile, anyone out there with this experience? Could you let me know?

Where I Ate in New York

Bungalow on lowest 1st Avenue in the East Village is supposedly one of the most difficult reservations in the city. Well, on 4th of July weekend it was easy. The front room is all colonial—in the back, well, it’s a little fern restaurant of the 90s. So I’d vote for the bar area if you want something cozier. But cozy or not, every 5 minutes, people lined up to take photos with chef Vikas Khanna beaming with such pride you have to root for his place.