Of Goats and Sourdough. And a Spatula? 🐐

Have Spatula. Will Travel.

This was the situation in which I found myself last Friday morning.

I'd been up since five a.m, lamenting that they insist on having one of those in the morning. And my spatula (the pink and white one, because of course) and I were on a bus to somewhere I'd never heard of, and was definitely not anywhere near Jerusalem.

See, I had make the mistake of listening to my own little self and decided that though it was not a good day for a good day (I trust we all know how I feel about that platitude), it was a good day to do whatever I needed to do for my mental, emotional, and physical health.

Gee. Thanks a lot, Self.

I swear. My ideas should come with warning labels and possibly alarm bells, but that's a topic for another time.

Anyway.

I had a very strong feeling I was about to face one of those “this could only happen to Mel” situations I used to blog about. (You can, unfortunately, find more of those stories here.)

But if all went well, I would see goats (which, rest assured, would have nothing at all to do with the afore mentioned spatula).

But if all went well, I would see goats (which, rest assured, would have nothing at all to do with the afore mentioned spatula).

Only time would tell.

Oh, and I also had a mixing bowl and dish towel with me. (Yes, the dish towel is from Zabar's. You can take the girl our of New York...)

Allow me to explain.

Visiting a Cretan cherry orchard with my uncle

Remember what I said last week about happiness not being a choice and dragging ourselves out of life's deepest, darkest pits by our fingernails?

Well, that's exactly what I was doing. I wasn't choosing to be happy, but I was choosing to do something to make myself feel better. I'd seen an ad for a sourdough baking workshop on a farm (or technically, a moshav).

A farm that had... goats.

Now, it's no secret that I like to bake bread.

And even less of a secret that I love goats.

I needed to get out of Jerusalem. Like... yesterday.

Which is how I found myself sitting at a bus stop in the middle of nowhere, by a lonely highway, like I was starring in some country western song, waiting for a ride.

Which is how I found myself sitting at a bus stop in the middle of nowhere, by a lonely highway, like I was starring in some country western song, waiting for a ride.

To say I was wiped out is an absolute understatement. Not to mention it was hot. Way hotter than Jerusalem.

What had I done? I was already in one of the deepest, darkest funks of my life. I could have been in bed, hate-watching a Hallmark movie. But no. I had to be stubborn.

Note: There is absolutely nothing wrong with staying in bed when you need to. No shame at all. Been there, done that. But for me, it was time to get up.

Don't let the graffiti fool you. There was nothing there.

I was tired of podcasts and playing around on social media. And having nothing else to do, I called my mother.

Naturally.

"I'm sitting at a bust stop by a lonely highway in the middle of nowhere," I whined, almost crying. "It's hot, and I'm out of water."

Yeah, it's possible that calling my mother wasn't one of my most brilliant ideas, as the picture I was painting for my Jewish mother who was across the world with no way to help was not exactly a pretty one.

Which I didn't realize until she suggested that I call the police and ask for their help getting to a bus back to Jerusalem.

"Is anyone with you," she asked?

"Yeah, a soldier just got here."

Great. On the plus side, my mother now knew I wasn't alone anymore, and that if I fainted, the soldier could help. On the not so plus side, the soldier only added to her mental image of some dusty bus stop in some low budget movie about the Middle East.

"He has one of those big guns?"

"Well yeah, he's a soldier in uniform, so..."

No. The situation was not nearly as terrifying as the image my mother had in her head. But it definitely wasn't pleasant.

Fortunately, my ride did finally show up, and after a short and blissfully air-conditioned ride, we got to the workshop.

Where we were served water.

Where we baked sourdough bread, and picked herbs, and tasted homemade olive oil and honey.

Where we visited goats. (Yay!!!)

Where there was fresh air and, best of all, peace and quiet.

(In case you're worried, I did text my mother to tell her I was safe and reassured her that the situation in no way resembled anything one would find in an episode of Fauda.)

The bus ride home in the pre-Shabbat traffic was absolute hell. But my rising sourdough had its own seat where it could rise and ride in luxury.

A hot bus is the perfect place to let bread dough rise. Highly recommend!

The taxi ride from the bus station to my apartment was even worse.

By the time I got home, I was carsick and overheated. I was so tired that when my mother called for an update, I could barely even speak. My cheeks were too tired to make the necessary motions.

No exaggeration.

This was earned.

I had no time or energy to bake the dough before Shabbat. So I let it keep rising in the refrigerator.

The next night, after Shabbat, I put the dough in the oven and let it bake during my writing class. I added two cinnamon sticks to my tea. I lit my writing candle.

My apartment smelled insanely good.

When my writing class was over, I tried the bread. It was so good I actually gasped when I took my first bite. The crust was crunchy. The inside was fluffy and airy. Thanks to the extra day to rise, the sourdough taste was even stronger.

Maybe, just maybe, the bread tasted even better because I'd worked so hard for it.

Maybe, just maybe, the bread tasted even better because I'd worked so hard for it.

Meet Archie!

That was five days ago. Have I recovered? Not really. I am beyond wiped out and my face is still sunburned.

And honestly, life is still treating me like I'm one of those creepy inflatable toys that springs right back up when it's punched.

But was the trip worth it? Did the change of scenery and sense of accomplishment lift my spirits even a little? Do I smile every time I open my refrigerator and see my sourdough starter, who I've named Archie (after the Greek word for "start")?

Absolutely.

As I said last week, "The ability to climb out out of dark pits miles deep into the earth, often holding on by our fingernails, always has a cost."

There's no magic wand. There's no switch.

There's no magic wand. There's no switch.

Nine times out of ten, happiness must be earned. And when we earn it, happiness means so much more."

That, my dear readers, is still my unpopular opinion. And I'm sticking to it.

Have you ever gone on a difficult adventure for the sake of lifting your spirits?