Strongarm Bakery put twelve jars of sourdough starter on a table beside a sign:
FREE TO A GOOD HOME. FEED DAILY.
By noon, Lucky Now had turned bread into a custody arrangement.
Joe took one jar back to Joe’s Coffee Shop and placed it beside the till.
“It needs flour, water and a warm spot,” he explained.
“So do I,” said Glady. “Nobody’s putting me beside the till.”
Joe named his starter Doughlene.
The owners of Wing Dings adopted one together, then immediately disagreed about its care.
One fed it at breakfast.
The other fed it again because it looked hungry.
By lunchtime, their jar had overflowed onto the specials board.
“We’ve overfed it,” said the first owner.
“You don’t know that,” said the second. “It might be a large breed.”
They named it Bread Zeppelin and moved it into a mixing bowl.
The Mayor arrived carrying coffee and selected a modest jar for Town Hall. He called it The Yeast Honourable and announced that it would demonstrate the town’s commitment to sustainable growth.
By the next morning, it had grown out of its jar and onto the minutes of the previous council meeting.
For once, something at Town Hall was rising without a tax increase.
Meanwhile, Glady’s starter sat quietly on her kitchen counter, doing exactly what the instruction sheet said it would.
She found this reassuring.
Everyone else found it suspicious.
At Joe’s, residents gathered around Doughlene to discuss bubbles, temperature and whether their starters were “happy.”
One customer claimed his starter responded to music.
Another insisted hers preferred the television left on.
Someone asked whether a starter could get lonely.
Joe looked at the crowded counter.
“Mine could use a little privacy.”
Nugs wandered in during his break from Ferns Flower Shop and examined the jars.
“This town has finally found something that gets baked without visiting Fern.”
He proposed a five-dollar starter-sitting service.
His entire care plan was written on a napkin:
FEED IT. WATCH IT. DON’T PANIC.
Glady read it.
“That’s the bakery’s instruction sheet.”
“Yes,” said Nugs. “But mine includes emotional support.”
By Friday, the community group was full of photographs of jars.
IS THIS NORMAL?
MINE SMELLS FUNNY.
DO I NEED A BIGGER HOME FOR HIM?
The Wing Dings owners posted a photograph of their mixing bowl.
OURS HAS ESCAPED AGAIN.
Strongarm Bakery finally invited everyone back for a simple bread-making demonstration.
The Mayor arrived with coffee and his starter in a cardboard box. Joe carried Doughlene carefully with both hands. The Wing Dings owners arrived with a bucket between them.
Glady brought a loaf.
Everyone stared.
“You made bread?” Joe asked.
“That was the general idea.”
The bakery explained that a starter was a living culture—not a pet—and that the instructions were intended to help people bake with it.
A disappointed silence settled over the room.
“So we weren’t supposed to get attached?” asked one Wing Dings owner.
“You were supposed to get a loaf,” said Glady.
They divided the starters, followed the recipe and eventually produced a respectable collection of bread.
The Mayor declared the afternoon a success.
Joe sliced Doughlene’s first loaf.
The Wing Dings owners agreed that Bread Zeppelin went particularly well with garlic butter.
Glady took a bite and nodded.
“This was irresponsible. But at least we finally baked something.”
The following morning, Strongarm Bakery changed its sign:
FREE SOURDOUGH STARTER.
THIS IS AN INGREDIENT.
Underneath, someone had added:
PLEASE DO NOT TEACH IT TRICKS.