I read through the recipe once, then start measuring.
Blueberries. Sugar. Lemon juice. Lemon zest. A pinch of salt.
Easy enough.
I work slowly, following the recipe exactly, while Aiden moves around the kitchen beside me. Cabinets open and close. Bowls clink softly.
From the corner of my eye, I see him pull out a large glass container from a cabinet that looks suspiciously like my own hidden bread cabinet.
Inside, the dough is bubbling slowly.
“Is that your starter?” I ask.
He grins a full, boyish smile, and brings it over so I can see.
“May,” he says dramatically, “meet Danny Doughvito.”
I stare at the container, then back at him.
“Shut the fuck up.”
We both burst out laughing.
“Are you serious?”
“Absolutely.” He sets it down on his side of the counter and starts gathering tools — a scale, glass bowls, and a weird-looking mixing thing I don’t recognize.
“That’s hilarious,” I say, zesting another lemon. “How did you come up with it?”
“I learned sourdough from this woman online,” he says. “She encouraged everyone to name their starters. Hers was Marilyn Mon-dough.”
“Wow,” I laugh. “Clever.”
I think for a second.
“I wonder what I’d name mine…”
He glances up at me, waiting.
“Bready Mercury.”
He freezes, then laughs so hard he has to lean on the counter.
“Clint Yeastwood,” he shoots back between laughs.
“Vol-dough-mort,” I say, widening my eyes dramatically.
We both lose it again, laughing loud enough that one of the dogs lifts its head briefly before settling back down.
“That’s it,” he says, between giggles. “You’re taking some of Danny Doughvito home today and making your own Vol-dough-mort.”
“For he should rise again,” I say solemnly.
That sends us into another round of laughter.
When we finally calm down, I stir the pot again, watching the blueberries start to soften.
“Wait,” I say after a moment. “I thought your mom taught you sourdough.”
