“If you want to understand my magic, let’s start with something small,” Millie offered. “Like this loaf of bread. You can help me whip it up. Start by weighing out sixty grams of butter.”
I took the apron Millie handed me and tied it around my waist. It took me forever to figure out how to work the wobbly little scale and slice the right amount of butter into a dish, but Millie waited patiently, never commenting on my colossally slow pace.
Once the butter was softened, Millie walked me through the next steps. I added a tablespoon of sugar, five hundred grams of bread flour, and a bit of salt. Millie didn’t even offer me a measurement for the salt, which drove me slightly nuts.
With my science-based educational background, I leaned more toward structure than intuition. “A pinch of this” or “a touch of that” always made me wonder—whose pinch? Silas’s pinch would be double mine because of his sheer hand size. But Millie didn’t seem to mind the fluidity in these sorts of measurements; she seemed to thrive on it.
“Now you take your sourdough starter.” Millie held up a clear glass container. “When it looks kind of bubbly like this, it means it’s ready to bake.”
“What do you mean,kind of bubbly?” I peered into the jar. It looked more like a squelchy science experiment than something you’d want to eat. “That’s not very specific.”
“You get to know your starter,” Millie said. “It’s a living thing, kind of. I mean, it’s not going to start talking to you, evenif it does have a name. Mine is named Doughlores after my childhood doll, Dolores.”
“You refer to your starter by an actual name?”
“Everybody does. One of my friends named hers Gus because it’s cranky and finicky.”
“Gus, like after Lily’s assistant?”
“You got it.”
“How does this mess get bubbly?”
“I don’t need to go into the science of sourdough starters. That could take a year in and of itself. Just know it’s affected by temperature, feeding schedule, humidity, the draft through your window… even the microbiomes on your hand. Every starter is different. Even if I gave you some of mine, it’d change once it was yours, to become something unique.”
“I’m not loving this,” I admitted. “I prefer rules and structure.”
“Well, this is a beautiful blend of both. You’ll get the hang of it in due time. It’s like magic. You can’t explain it to someone who’s never felt it. And once you feel it, it starts to make sense.”
“I never thought I’d get a magic lesson in the kitchen,” I said. “Especially one involving sourdough.”
“To be honest, I never thought I’d be giving one,” Millie said with a chuckle. “Also, take what I say with a big pinch of salt, the very biggest pinch you can imagine. I’m not exactly qualified to teach the Fae Queen anything about magic.”
“On the contrary, I think this is the most I’ve learned about it in a long time. You’ve helped me more than Seer Goddard.”
“He’ll come around; I’m sure of it. You’re doing all the right things—just keep being yourself.”
“That’s what people keep telling me.” I sighed. “I know it’s been a short time, but I’m getting anxious to start learning and practicing. This feels like wasted time. I don’t know what else to do while I wait.”
“Then there’s nothing more to do,” Millie said simply, as if that ended the discussion. “There you go. Now just chuck it all together and mix it up.”
“Chuck it all together,” I muttered under my breath, searching the counter for some kind of recipe. There wasn’t one. No written instructions, no spell, no help at all.
I did my best to “chuck it all together” and began kneading the dough.
“Too sticky,” Millie observed. “Add a pinch of flour.”
I groaned.
Millie gave a soft laugh. “Just a little, whateverlittlemeans to you. Add more as needed. You’ll know when it’s right.”
I kept kneading, and eventually, I felt it. The dough grew smooth and elastic. I held it up and saw light filter through it, like a windowpane, just like Millie had told me would happen. I looked up, feeling nearly as proud as the day I’d graduated medical school.
“You feel it,” Millie said. It wasn’t a question.
“I mean, I’m no expert baker, but I see what you mean.”
“It’s a lot like magic,” Millie reiterated. “It’s hard to explain. You must tinker with it, spend time learning it. Watch and listen, instead of forcing it to do something. No matter how much you want a watery sourdough starter to rise, it’s not going to obey. You need to be patient and work on its time. But when you get it, you get it.”
