Wilson lives in a jar on my kitchen counter top. I have to remember to feed him (her?) every two weeks or so, but lately it has been daily as I try to discover the secret of the sour in sourdough. Wilson is my sourdough starter, named for the volleyball "friend" in the movie "Castaway" with Tom Hanks. (My girls named it.)

I'm up five extra pounds trying to capture the true sour taste. Although the starter works and produces marvelous loaves of bread, only one so far was actually sour enough for me and I'm not sure what I did that time.

My sister accused me of sending her anthrax through the mail, because when I ordered Wilson, who is free of charge for a self-addressed stamped envelope, I put an envelope in for her as well. I thought it would at least come with some explanation. Rather, it came with a baggie of white powder and a sticker with the website, prompting her phone call. She'd recognized my handwriting, so if I do indeed decide to send a less benign mailing, I'll have to cut the letters out of a magazine and paste them on the envelope.

Wilson has an impressive genealogy, tracing his roots back to the Oregon Trail. You can order free Wilson online to make your own starter. Yet, there doesn't seem to be much difference between him and the sourdough starter that I made myself last year from wild yeast in the air. I'll keep trying, but in the meantime, that sour smell in my house? It isn't from old dishrags. It's just Wilson.

Notes
That old hen is still alive. Amazing. She's looking pitiful though.
Lester the Rooster has turned mean. Anyone want him to eat?