Last fall I decided to try my hand at baking sourdough bread, since I might have been among the 1% who didn’t take the plunge during COVID. The first step was to make a starter from scratch, which was supposed to take seven days. After three weeks of minimal activity, I emailed the blogger who had posted the recipe and method to find out why it wouldn’t rise. After a bit of back and forth, she suggested that my water might be the culprit. I was using tap water from my well, which had been treated by a reverse-osmosis purifying system that takes out the acid and iron, along with the beneficial chemicals needed to make yeast. She also suggested that there was no shame in buying a starter, so I ordered one from King Arthur Baking and began feeding it, using Poland Spring water. Within a few days the starter was bubbling and rising happily, and a couple of weeks later I was ready to bake.
My first loaf was surprisingly successful, though the scoring was lame and the ear was misshapen.
In the meantime I found a thread on Reddit and began reading about the thrill of victory and the agony of defeat that is the sourdough journey, and uncovered some great resources. What a rabbit-hole that has been! Armed with enough knowledge to be dangerous, I decided to make loaves as Christmas gifts.
My maiden effort was Chocolate Sourdough from a great baker named Ash Turner, who lives in coastal Nova Scotia. Her loaves were beautifully scored…mine, not so much. I doubled her recipe but must have gotten distracted while I was mixing the dough and got the proportions wrong; the top two images below are my near fails (the one on the right I call Running Yeti). So I whipped up another batch, and the still ugly ones below, with chocolate chips, were the result. These loaves were not sweet (they weren’t supposed to be) and tasted best with cream cheese or as French toast. The crowning glory was bread pudding on New Year’s morning, drizzled with leftover chocolate fondue from the night before. Talk about gilding the lily!
Undeterred, I tried again, this time with a better outcome, and experimented with stencilling.
Next up was Deli-Style Rye, which was my first big success. The recipe developer is a guy named Grant from Arizona, whose recipes turned out to be simple, straightforward, and reliable.
The Sun-Dried Tomato and Goat Cheese Artisan Loaf made a good Christmas gift, and I’ve since enjoyed it made with feta instead of goat. When I ran across goat cheese with figs, I was inspired, and will make a loaf with that and more dried figs.
Through the winter I tried a number of variations, including jalapeno-cheddar, caramelized onion and rosemary, croissant, olive-parmesan, spelt, and a lovely turmeric and ginger that looked like sunshine on my counter.
One great source of bread recipes, not surprisingly, is King Arthur Baking, so I was excited to try their purportedly easy Pain de Campagne, or Country Bread. It was flat as a pancake, but made good croutons for the Thanksgiving dressing!
When I studied the recipe, I realized it called for only 28 grams of starter for 1000 grams of flour (a typical double recipe like this one would normally use 200 grams of starter, or 20% of the amount of flour). The starter would need to be monstrously strong to lift that much flour! So I tried again with 100 grams of starter and 500 grams of flour, and voilà! A buxom beauty she was!
The hardest part of sourdough baking is the bulk fermentation process, which begins when the flour and starter are mixed together. After a brief rest, you strengthen the dough and develop gluten using different folding techniques, resting between rounds. Typically you might do three sets of stretch and folds 30 minutes apart, then leave the dough alone for the remainder of this period. Many recipes instruct you to ferment for X more hours. However, every kitchen is its own environment and temperature plays a key role, both the ambient temperature and the temperature of your dough, which are more important than time.
BF ends when the dough has risen the desired amount, has bubbles on top and throughout, and jiggles like Jell-O. The warmer the dough (and the ambient temperature) the faster the process; and the percentage rise you’re looking for is lower. For example, if your dough is 76°F, your target rise might only be 40-50%, which could take 6-7 hours. If your dough temp is more like 70°, BF time could be 12 hours, and your target rise might be as much as 100%. So the appearance and behavior of the dough is more important than time.
Over the winter my kitchen was about 68°, so I had to use artificial means to get the dough into the mid-70s, rather than letting it sit on my counter. I tried placing the proofing vessel in the turned-off oven with the light on and a measuring cup of boiling water on the shelf alongside. I also tried using my warming mat, which turned out to be too hot. I finally settled on using the proof setting on the oven, which I think created an ambient temp of about 100. You can also use a proofing box made specifically for sourdough, but I have an aversion to tools that serve only one purpose, so I didn’t buy one.
My usual timeline was to feed the starter before going to bed, then mixing the dough by late morning so as to have plenty of time for bulk fermenting before the next step of shaping the dough into loaves and sticking them in the fridge overnight, to be baked the next day. But since life often gets in the way, I wanted to find a way to manage the process on my schedule, not the dough’s. My solution in the next installment.
It’s been two months since I began recounting my transition from homeowner to tenant in my daughter’s home, and I’m just now recovering from what was a strenuous period of sorting, boxing, toting, taping, and throwing out. I may have kept more stuff than I’ll ultimately need, but time will tell. I’ve identified some stuff that needs to go to storage, as well as stuff that needs to come out, so I’ll visit my storage area in the next week or so.
Thanks to the downsizing company and my concierge, Andy, the process was well-organized and nearly flawlessly executed. In the weeks leading up to the moves, I packed a lot of boxes myself, notifying Andy when I had a critical mass to send off to storage. My son-in-law took some items to their house during that time as well, including many cases of wine from my collection. I sold things on Facebook Marketplace (probably underpriced, as they were snapped up quickly) and donated carsful of good items to the church tag sale taking place in the fall. A couple of favorite but too large chairs went to a good home with dear friends, along with some outdoor dining chairs.
One of the more helpful services provided by the downsizer was a foldable dumpster, about 5’x5′ and 4′ deep, which held a surprising amount of trash. A truck equipped with a crane came at the end of the process and hauled everything away. Andy also disposed of my king-sized mattress and box springs, which saved me the hassle and expense.
Once the house sold, preparations began in earnest. Andy and I developed a plan because the move was somewhat complex: a move of furniture and personal items to West Hartford, followed by a move of everything else to storage. On a Friday, Andy’s best packer, Carol, and her sidekick, Mason, worked with Andy to pack up all the artwork from my walls; that involved making custom boxes to store the bigger things. I appreciated the care they took with these precious belongings, many of which are irreplaceable. They also began packing the kitchen and everything that would be moved to West Hartford on Monday; that weekend I purged everything from both refrigerators and freezers.
I moved out of the house for the final time on Sunday. The moving van arrived early on Monday and the crew of the aforementioned plus four more guys made quick work of loading for the trip to WH, which included my bedroom furniture (sans bed), a sofa, and two chairs, one with an ottoman, all my in-season clothes, shoes, books to be read, two bookshelves, office equipment (big monitor, printer, shredder), my basement refrigerator, cookbooks, non-perishable food, sourdough baking supplies, refrigerated and frozen food and a revolving bookcase. By 2:30 they had deposited everything to WH and Carol was arranging clothes in my closet.
On Tuesday they were back at the house packing everything else in the van to go to storage, and they accomplished that by noon. All that remained were the bits and pieces of things not designated for storage or WH, which we gathered up by Wednesday morning. They ran the shop-vac throughout the empty house and garage, and it was ready for the buyer’s inspection on Thursday. I also pre-signed all the documents on Thursday, and his closing, on Friday, took all of fifteen minutes.
In the intervening four weeks I’ve been unpacking, sorting, and squeezing everything into my condensed space. What I probably miss the most is my built-in office, lovingly crafted by my talented nephew.
My current workspace is a small, elegant desk that holds my laptop, big monitor and a desk lamp. A small bookshelf houses the printer, and a larger one the various receptacles that had all been conveniently stashed in my former space. I bought another storage piece that includes a file cabinet, and once that’s put together the room will look a lot neater. The chair in the picture above is also in my bedroom; I’m grateful for this room, which is basically a second master bedroom. I have a queen bed, plus an armoire, nightstands, low chest, and revolving bookcase. There is a walk-in closet, filled to the gills! An en-suite bathroom rounds out the space, but it needs to be gutted and refinished to be usable. In the meantime, I’m sharing a bathroom with my grandchildren, which works fine for now.
My space is small but comfortable, and when I want privacy I just close the door. The kids respect that, and don’t bother me if I’m in there. I love waking up to hear the children chime, “Good morning, Bibi!”
Last summer I began the arduous task of cleaning out 28 years’ worth of accumulated “stuff” with an eye toward selling my house in the spring of 2026. My ambitious daughter provided essential inspiration for jump-starting the process, and along with her husband, the muscle to schlep things to Goodwill, the dump and the library sale (fifteen boxes of books in the first drop!)
As the seasons progressed I realized I was going to need more help than they could provide on a consistent basis. She uncovered a downsizing service that turned out to be a lifesaver. With Boomers ditching their big houses and simplifying their lives, this brilliant business model provides one-stop service to coordinate everything. The company I selected offers concierge service, a dedicated person to help me cull, sort, pack and move. They have their own climate-controlled storage facility and moving vehicles.
My plan is to sell the house, then move in with my little family for a time, maybe a year, and look for my next nest. I’ve visited and ruled out life care communities (too many walkers and wheelchairs, plus an upfront fee in the hundreds of thousands); condos (don’t want a mortgage or an HOA with the associated drama); or an over-55 community (ditto). That narrows the options down to a luxury apartment; but my wish list includes a garage (no snow scraping for this girl) and a basement, and my options are limited.
Packing in earnest started a couple of months ago. During his first visit Andy, my concierge, toured the house and we marked all the furniture with colored tape: green if it’s going to daughter’s, yellow for storage, and red for donating or disposal. That scheme carries on for boxes. He helped me start packing, then I took over, calling him whenever I had a critical mass of stuff to move into storage. Meanwhile, I’m a frequent visitor to Goodwill and the library. I also sold some furniture on Facebook Marketplace.
In early May the fun began. My terrific realtor brought in his stager, who made a few minor suggestions to get the house view-worthy, then had photos taken, along with a 3-D rendering. The house hit the market on May 15, and the next day I had a showing, followed by an offer early on Saturday. Three more showings followed that day, plus an open house and more showings on Sunday. By Monday I had more offers, all over asking, two in cash. I settled on a cash offer $40,000 over asking — no mortgage approval, no appraisal, only one inspection (septic system). Yesterday the septic inspection was completed and it passed with flying colors. I’ve met with the buyer twice and really like him; single, in his early 30s, inherited money when his dad died a couple of years ago. He told me he loved the fact that I’ve lived here nearly thirty years and had obviously put a lot of love and money into the home. I feel really good about him being the new owner.
When I put up the Fusterlandia post, I forgot to include this photo. It seemed like all the dogs were wearing tee shirts against the cold — at least the ones who had owners..
Some faces.
We spent some time in a boxing gym watching these buff young guys spar.
Taping the fingers is an art.
I promised more images from Fusterlandia, so here goes.
The image above is from inside the walls of Fuster’s casa.
The detail in these works is remarkable, making it hard to decide where to look. Fun place.
Probably the most iconic images of Cuba are of the 1950s-era American cars. Many of them have been restored — how, I have no clue, since there’s been an embargo on any parts and equipment for many years. You have to credit Cuban ingenuity for keeping these cars running without access to genuine replacement parts. With the sorry state of streets and roadways, it’s a miracle that the suspension systems don’t simply give out.
There were more beautiful automobiles than I expected to see, many of them employed as taxis, their proud owners buffing them up as they waited for customers.
The details are fun to shoot.
We took a spin one day that was cut short by a rain shower that turned into a deluge as we scrambled to put the top up. But we made up for it with a cruise through the tunnel spanning Havana Harbor, finding a panoramic landscape of the city from the fortifications on the other side, and a look at the Christ Statue, modeled after the one in Rio (and much smaller)
Back on the Malecòn later that day, we stopped to chat with some fishermen. One shared a great deal about his life and situation. Like everyone we met, he has never been off the island.
o
To say Havana is a city of contrasts is a gross understatement. On a potholed street neglected buildings threaten to collapse, while across the street an upscale restaurant caters to tourists with a high-end menu and chic décor. Narrow, alley-like passageways, totally dark at night, open onto expansive plazas with statues honoring national heroes, and 17th century cathedrals cling to their fading frescoes and chipping gilt.
This pile of rubble marked the intersection to the street where our casa is located.
Uncollected trash piles up on the streets. Sady says the government complains it doesn’t have enough trucks to pick it up.
In 1959, insurgents led by Fidel Castro and Che Guevara overthrew the corrupt, repressive regime of Fulgencio Batista. Under the Batista dictatorship, supported by the United States, the economic gap between poor Cubans and the wealthy sugar barons widened. Ultimately, most of the sugar industry — and the land on which the cane was grown — had fallen into US hands, and the American Mafia flourished by controlling gambling, drugs and prostitution on the island. Media censorship, violence, torture, and executions were the order of the day as Batista tried to consolidate his power. Unrest and resistance predictably followed.
The socialist ideology embraced by Castro and Che, with its promises of economic security for all, were understandably welcomed by the Cuban people, aside from the wealthy folks who fled to the US, Europe or other Latin American countries. But it soon became apparent that Cuba had swapped one corrupt and repressive regime for another, as Castro adopted many of the practices that made Batista such a reviled figure: media censorship, repression of dissent and free speech, and persecution of his political enemies. He proudly proclaimed his fealty to the Marxist/Leninist ideology before embracing Communism, opposing gambling, prostitution and drug use, all rampant in the Batista years.
Though he died in 2016 at the age of 90, after ceding leadership to his brother, Raul, his presence still looms large on the island, and people still believe in his promises of Cuban liberation and a free economy. Graffiti proclaiming “Siempre Fidel” and images of the man — along with Che — can be seen everywhere, and Cuba remains a one-party Communist state.
Art plays a key role in Cuban life. Maybe it serves to mitigate the ugliness of cratering buildings or uncollected trash piles in the streets, but the tile work, carved iron, and graffiti provide an exuberant distraction from all that is not pretty in Havana. Their artistic talent is remarkable.
Walking down the short alley dubbed Callejón de Hamel immerses you in colorful art celebrating Afro-Cuban culture. Many of the sculptures are crafted from found objects — like bathtubs! On the weekends, musicians and rumba dancers liven up this compact space.
Cubans tell stories through their graffiti. Some pieces look angry, some romantic, some joyous. But it is everywhere — helping you look past the poverty and destruction of this once-elegant city.
Many of the works are very edgy and defy categorization, unless maybe you’re Cuban.
More later about the remarkable contrasts of this fascinating city.
I spent the better part of this afternoon reviewing the images from my camera in preparation for catching up on this blog on Cuba. Usually I organize my posts according to the itinerary we’re following, but this Cuba experience calls for something different, as my photos naturally group themselves more by subject.
But to finish out our excursion to Viñales, here are a few more images of the lovely town and farm.
And the private botanical garden with its gigantic staghorn ferns and Monstera.
Cigar rolling. We dipped the mouth end of the cigar in honey for a milder flavor.
Another three hours on the bone-jarring highway and we were back in Havana for a nice dinner at nearby Donde Lis, where I had the enormous Cuban version of fried rice and croquetas with blue cheese.
Imagine one of the most turbulent flights you’ve ever experienced, then imagine it going on for three hours, and you’ll begin to get an idea of how bad the major roads are in Cuba. By the time we got to the (very nice) rest stop, I felt like my teeth were jarred loose.
Our destination today is Viñales. Our route took us through Pinar del Rio, with its large collection of Soviet-era apartment blocks. Brutalist architecture, for sure.
Viñales, by contrast, is a tidy, charming town featuring colorful colonial-era wooden houses facing a vibrant main thoroughfare dotted with shops and restaurants.
Sady took us to a private botanical garden created by one of the local residents.
Viñales was settled by people from the Canary Islands, who dreamed of planting vineyards, hence the name. But the climate and terroir weren’t conducive to cultivating grapes, so over time other agriculture took root, as it were. Now the region is known for growing tobacco. The area is situated in mountains made primarily of karst outcroppings and dotted with sinkholes and caves.
Lunch was at a farm in the national park, with all the tasty food coming from the gardens and butchery. I partook of a special house drink with a touch of Havana Club. It was like a milk shake, and so tasty.
After lunch we were treated to a cigar-rolling demonstration and were cajoled into having a smoke.
The iconic Cuban cigar man.