and the sourdough saga continues, nothing much changes, apart maybe my level of frustration at my tarnished bread making skills of a fermented-kind. Once again yeast of the dried-kind cheekily beckons me from the high shelf of my kitchen cupboard... 'Go on, you know you can't live without me!'. Weak as an addict I hungrily clutch up with fingers at full stretch to reach the upper, uppermost far, far reaches of my shame.
'I will keep my starter ticking over in the fridge!' I tell myself as I carefully cut the sachet open...
