Free Joy For Beginners by Erica Bauermeister Page B

smiled. “I walked across a bridge that doesn’t exist. And after that, being scared just didn’t seem so important anymore.”
    Daria looked at him and returned his smile, slowly.
    “I like that story,” she said.
    As they had been talking, people had started reluctantly putting on their coats, silky linings running over skin, spices mixing with perfumes, traveling out into the night.
    “Are you tired?” Henry asked. “There’s something I’d like to do.”
    The old inclination for banter, for flirtation rose up in her and then sighed back. Maybe it was the wine, or the hour, but she didn’t want the bob and weave of spicy conversation. She just wanted to hear what Henry wanted to do, to say.
    “Okay,” she replied.
     
    HENRY’S HOUSEBOAT WAS WARM, the lights soft.
    Daria took off her coat and hung it on the hook by the door. “I thought houseboats were always cold. The water and all that.”
    “Occupational hazard,” Henry replied, and headed for the kitchen. “Come on in here.”
    Daria watched as Henry filled a battered teapot with water and put it on the stove. Then, out of the refrigerator he took a white plastic container and took off the lid, inhaling with satisfaction.
    “Here, smell,” he said, holding it out to her. Daria bent her face toward the container, the world disappearing into a tunnel of white walls and the oatmeal-colored mass rising up toward her, bubbling slightly. She inhaled; the scent was complicated, elusive, a cross-weave of sweet and sharp, sand and sea and sun. It reminded her of the Amish guilt-bread starter, but something was different.
    “What is it?”
    “Sourdough starter. A friend gave me this one—it’s over one hundred years old.” Henry’s voice held more than a touch of pride.
    “How?”
    “You feed it.”
    “Like a pet.” Daria’s expression was amused.
    “You know, a hundred years ago, this starter kept someone alive.” Henry’s tone was firm, educational. “All it took was this and flour and water and salt and you had food. There are legends about gold miners in Alaska sleeping with their starters at night to keep them from freezing, and pioneer women passing them down for generations. But you know the coolest thing?”
    Daria marveled at the way Henry’s voice accelerated with excitement. How was it, Daria wondered, that anybody could be so thrilled about yeast at one in the morning?
    “The starter attracts the wild bacteria that’s floating in the air around it—and the bacteria are different depending on where you are. So if you breathe in, you are smelling all the places it’s been.”
    Daria took the container back, bent over it once again. It was so different from clay—cool, yes, with that same slightly sharp, slightly metallic undertone, but while clay smelled quiet, the starter was a flurry of activity. Where had it traveled? she wondered. What part of the smell had come from here, where Henry lived?
    Henry clicked on the oven controls and turned to Daria.
    “Want to make bread?” he asked.
     
    THE DOUGH WAS RISING in a ceramic bowl, set near the oven for warmth. Daria had watched as Henry poured dry yeast into warm water, added some honey, and swirled it all together, the yeast melting into soft brown clouds that foamed and bubbled. He added the sourdough starter and cup after cup of flour, a bit of salt.
    “I like to play with the old recipes a bit,” he said with a grin. “Now it needs a chance to rise.” He poured hot water into two cups, added chamomile tea bags and handed one mug to Daria, carrying his to the living room. Daria followed him.
    “I love this part,” Henry said as he settled into the couch. “You can smell it all growing. It’s different than when it’s baking. I like that, too, but there’s something about this part. Maybe it’s that you have to wait; I don’t know.”
    Daria took off her shoes and sat sideways across from Henry, her head turned slightly, looking out at the water. She didn’t even