Projects of the present,

projecting into the future.

Sourdough has come and been eaten, but as promised, here is the one-year-old rye flour starter at it’s bubbling peak.


The line mark for the maximum rise,

like a tide in the sand; the peak.


Little bubbles,

pockets of carbon dioxide or

some other gas that this yeast could produce.

Who knows if it

truly is a yeast

and not another kind of living organism that consumes

flour and water to produce gas?

Perhaps it is neither of all of these.

What a thought!

He made this longan bread, probably inspired by the Wu Pao Chun lychee longan nut sourdough bread we had the week before.

That bread, with a harder crust, is my goal for an eventual sourdough. But, I think I like my starter better since it actually has a slightly sour taste. Maybe that’s our bias speaking, a love for things we have made of our own accord.

Nevertheless, I don’t deny that the rise and the sheer magnitude of that boule were really impressive.

Other than that, also urban farming –

home farming and

starting and trying again.


egg trays to sprout and baby the seeds into seedlings:

the hopes of the future

and constantly trying.

Day, one naturally nothing is there to be seen,

just a bunch of soil that’s dampened by

water, but oh,

what a story I could tell you!

day 1

A story of a bag of soil and of staying home for a long while? A story of such days where we wake at 11 in the morning to the bright sun and hot air.

The egg carton with 12 holes, 10 + 2 free eggs, that is the cheapest per egg in the supermarket shelf, a kind of consideration that we used to make before and now do not even go out to make.

The bag of soil with a mysterious split of its plastic seam at the top, the soil breathing and condensing on the inner plastic – composed of “soil, coconut husk and rice bran” it claims.

Interestingly enough, the unknown plastic sharp bits and the one snail shell left in the spoon, these bits that we collected whilst breaking up the lumps of loam and clay into dirt particles the size relative to the egg carton divots.

I guess this is also a log of the days where there are fewer things ‘out-of-the-ordinary’. The new normal of reusing masks and gloves, the world we live in where people die and live every other second.

They do it slowly to safeguard our

fragile sense of ‘normalcy’

which is always a considerate move.

How unfortunate that it is necessary:

but we commend their emotional nature.

He teared up, dare we say he cried?

But if it did not make us want someone to

offer him a tissue, then nothing else would, oh, mister you shed those, those


A hug, would not have been out of stock,

only out of order.

But also, dear my koala-loving friend, thank you for bringing me back the other day.

Since it is probably fate and measures will only get stricter.



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