"Look, you were a drunken accident. Frankly, I didn't want to keep you but she insisted", ranted Mr. Scoop. By she, he meant me.
"It's not my fault that you didn't know he'd need to be fed and cared for when you brought him into the world. Besides, look at him. Sitting there all helpless and alone. You were so excited when he first got here. You were all like, 'Look at my goo! Behold my goo and tremble!' Now it's all, 'He smells funny' and 'Why is he weeping? I didn't do anything.' It's like you've never dealt with a sticky load of gak before", I said. "You want to kill him? Fine. Just remember, we've already named him."
This is Mongo.
He's our sourdough starter.
This is a picture of his first home. Apparently, we were committing unintentional abuse even as he was brought into the world. Sourdough starters don't like metal. It stunts their growth.
Mongo eats like a teenager and smells like yeast in puberty. No, I'm not sure what that means, but it is funky.
After a few days of not eating and sitting around marinating in his own funk, Mongo weeps tears called "hooch". "See", I said to Mr. Scoop. "Tears of pure, fermented hooch. He is your child." Realizing this base connection, Mr. Scoop stopped threatening to feed him to the garbage disposal.
I got impatient and made some of Mongo into bread on day 5.
The bread was tasty. Very tasty. But it was not particularly sourdough like. Mongo needs more time to mature. More time to get funky. So, Mongo now lives in the fridge, biding his time.
Get funky, Mongo. We'll be waiting.