Wild yeast sourdough starter

by Carl Dyke

As a logical next step in my fiddlings with bread-making, I just baked my first sourdough loaf with home-made wild yeast starter the other day. To eliminate all suspense, it came out great – by which I mean, it reminded me of all the things I like about sourdough bread without introducing any new negative associations. I especially like it because I did it ‘all wrong’, which is what this post will now document.

“Softly now, softly now – try it, you won’t die.” Silkworm, “A Cockfight of Feelings

So, how I went about this is I got on the ol’ internet and googled ‘sourdough starter’. A little reading got me pretty quickly to the further qualification, ‘wild yeast’ – thus distinguishing the truly artisanal starter from the kinds someone else made that you can buy for a whole lot of money from specialty baking stores, if you’re a clueless snob, or Amazon, if you’re even more clueless but at least not a snob. So once I had the correct verbiage for cheap-ass diy starter, I did some more searching and read through some instructions. (I omit the links because I just told you how to diy, get it?)

Well, opinions about exactly what’s happening with sourdough starter seem to vary a bit, starting with where the wild yeasts are actually coming from. Is it the air around us? Is it the flour? Is it the whole grains you must treat with excruciatingly careful reverence to yield Gaia’s bounty of biomagic? With just a slight knowledge of these matters, I decided it was probably all of the above, plus everywhere else, since that’s where yeasts are. So I ignored the instructions that said I had to be careful not to cover the starter vessel with plastic wrap or anything else impermeable. I also ignored the instructions that said I had to hermetically seal the starter vessel, sterilize every instrument that ever came in contact with the starter, wear a hazmat suit, never use stainless steel, always use stainless steel, never use silicon, always use silicon, and so on.

Go Green!

Go Green!

In fact I pretty much ignored every single instruction designed to seal off the wild yeast starter from the environment it had somehow come from. I also ignored all the instructions designed to make my starter a delicate, difficult thing that required constant, meticulous care. I know people whose lives are given a rich sense of meaning by arranging to provide constant, meticulous care to other creatures, but that’s not me and if it was, I’d pick creatures other than yeasts and lactobacilli.

Speaking of lactobacilli, I paid a lot of attention to discussions of the multi-biotic nature of sourdough starter. It’s not the yeasts that are making the sour, it’s the bacteria. But the bacteria don’t make the bread rise, and they also have a tendency to make the ‘spoilt’ version of sour when they get lonely and pig out. So a functional sourdough starter is actually a community of beasties each creating some of the conditions for each others’ happiness, encouraging each others’ strengths and discouraging each others’ excesses, and incidentally each handling part of a fairly complex little biological process that assembles into a tangy leavening. Which of course wasn’t at all what they ‘intended’, but makes an excellent complement to garlicky cream cheese. So anyway, ‘building’ a starter is a process of getting that community together to work out a harmonious relationship under the conditions they enjoy.

“Control is when others’ locked-in interactions generate a flow of collective behavior that just happens to serve one’s interests.” Padgett and Ansell, “Robust Action and the Rise of the Medici, 1400-1434;” see also Padgett and Powell, The Emergence of Organizations and Markets (2012).

Those conditions are: flour and water. We’re talking about fermentation here, after all, which in real life is hard to keep from happening if you’ve got moist sugars around. Which brings up the mold problem, of which there’s plenty in my house, the dominant strain for unmysterious reasons being ‘bleu cheese’. But fortunately, between the acid the bacteria start producing right away, the alcohol the yeasts start producing soon enough, and the natural division of labor among the artistes of organic decomposition, mold is not actually much of a threat if you’re not trying hard to kill the yeast and bacteria somehow.

Mmmmmmm, stinky.

OK, so I read a whole lot about ambient temperature, water temperature, using bottled water, using distilled water and adding minerals back in, using orange juice, using pineapple juice, using white flour, using rye flour, not using white flour, not using rye flour. With just a slight knowledge of these matters, I reflected on the global success under the most extreme conditions of yeasts and lactobacilli, and decided not to sweat any of these factors too much (although, in principle, I wouldn’t have been completely surprised if a chlorine spike in my suburban tap water had set the critters back a bit). I did decide to take some of the chance out of the lactobacilli, mostly because I had an old tub of plain yogurt handy. And no, it was not any particular brand or type of plain yogurt, but it was past its expiration date as it happens.

I also looked at a lot of instructions about getting a kitchen scale, getting one that measures in grams because they’re more precise, calibrating hydration ratios, using a tall, straight-sided vessel with a dedicated lid, sterilizing this vessel and your hands before handling it, scraping down the sides so that, gosh, I don’t know. So anyway, here was my beginning recipe for my wild yeast sourdough starter:

Some flour
Some water
Some plain yogurt.

Roughly the same amount of each, by eyeball, probably a bit less yogurt because I thought of that as a ‘supplement’.

“My friends always say, the right amount’s fine. Lazy people make rules.” Silkworm, “A Cockfight of Feelings”

All of this went in a plastic bowl (with sloped sides because it has sloped sides) I also eat cereal, pasta, and curry from sometimes; with some plastic wrap loosely draped on top to keep it from drying out too fast. This then went on a corner of the kitchen table I wasn’t using for anything else right then. I am woefully ignorant of the exact temperature of this spot, but I can guarantee it was neither hot enough to bake nor cold enough to freeze my arse. I started with bread flour, I think, but I ran out of that before the next feeding so I switched to rye for awhile because I had a bag of that open and it kept getting mentioned in the instructions. Then for awhile what I had open and easy to get at was some white whole wheat flour, so I used that.

And speaking of feeding, I read all kinds of instructions about pouring out exactly [some ratio I forget] of the starter before each feeding, adding back [another exact ratio I forget] of flour and water, doing this once a day at first and then every 12 hours, carefully swabbing down the sides of the container, adding strips of tape to allow precise measurement of the starter’s expansions and contractions, holding the container between your knees and counting to 6,327 by perfect squares, and checking carefully for ‘hooch’, which is such a precise technical term that at least half of the folks using it have no idea it’s why there’s NASCAR.

Medicinal purposes only, of course.

What I did instead was pour some out and add some back, roughly the amount it had expanded in the interim; when I remembered it, which was anything from a couple times a day to every couple of days. I tried to keep it pretty soupy because I read the beasties like to be wet, and I’ve found this to be true. I did this for something between a week and two weeks – I did not keep track. About day 2 or 3 it got that sourdough smell, then it settled into a kind of sweet peachiness I had not expected. I got back onto the internet and found a long forum thread on the many, many different permutations of ‘sweet peachy’ smell ranging all the way to ‘spiced apple’ that can be expected from a properly harmonizing community of yeasts and bacteria. Reassuring. So when I got sick of waiting any longer, although I think I was supposed to, instead of pouring out the extra I poured it into a bowlful of the flour I happened to have handy and open right then. Whole wheat, rye, and kamut as I recall – kamut btw is fun stuff, an heirloom grain that has a lovely buttery flavor and adds amazing elasticity to a dough.

Here was the ‘recipe’: salt in the right amount for the flour, bit of sugar to be friendly, touch of olive oil and enough warm (tap) water to make a wet dough just drier than a batter. Because the beasties like to be wet. Once they’d fermented that up for most of a day, I stretched, folded, smeared, punched and kneaded in enough more flour that it would stay in a loaf shape (not doing this is how you get ciabatta); let it think about that for maybe an hour longer; threw it in a hot oven on the pizza stone; dumped some water in the bottom of the oven to get some steam to keep the crust from setting too quickly (thank you internet); and some time later there was delicious whole wheat / rye / kamut multigrain sourdough bread.


Through all this I was aware that by failing to control for every possible variable the project could go horribly awry rather than pleasantly a rye. I reflected on the $.50 of flour and aggregate 10 minutes of work that would be irretrievably lost, and decided to roll those dice.

Does this mean none of the variables all that internet fussing is trying tightly to control don’t matter? On the contrary, I’m sure they do. But my little experiment suggests most of them other than flour, water, a container, and temperatures somewhere between freezing and baking are conditions of the ‘inus’ variety:

“The inus condition is an insufficient but non–redundant part of an unnecessary but sufficient condition” [quoting Cartwright, Nature’s Capacities and their Measurement, 1989, citing Mackie, The Cement of the Universe, 1980]. It’s best to read that backwards: you identify causal conditions sufficient to produce a given effect, but know that there are other conditions that could have produced the same effect. Within the sufficient conditions you’ve identified is a condition that couldn’t produce the effect by itself, is separate from all the other conditions that along with it could produce the effect, but must be among them for the effect to be produced through the causal pathway that’s been picked out. The inus scenario (any scenario containing an inus condition) shows up frequently in attempted causal analyses, and has to be accounted for somehow in any comprehensive causal theory (Chuck Dyke aka Dyke the Elder, “Cartwright, Capacities, and Causes: Approaching Complexity in Evolving Economies,” draft-in-progress).

There are lots of ways to skin a cat. Which means there’s an interesting sociology of popular science lurking in the internet’s various treatments of wild yeast sourdough starter. There are many strategies on offer, each presenting a series of essential steps to success. And each of the strategies will in fact result in a successful culture, while adding procedures that may be important only to offset the sabotage added by other procedures, or to create an outcome distinguished only by the specific way it was achieved; or not important at all except for attention focus or ritual (which, by the way, are not trivial considerations). Apparently when a thing happens to work one way, we can be inclined to leap to the conclusion that this is the one best way to make it happen; ignoring all evidence to the contrary, for example all the other ways described in their own loving detail by other practitioners just as convinced of the robust essence of their accidental triumphs.

Incidentally, this is also how I think about education in general, and general education in particular.


19 Responses to “Wild yeast sourdough starter”

  1. Carl, you might like this riff I wrote the other day about Kalid Azad’s _Math, Better Explained_.

    Azad’s advice for getting to grips with mathematical ideas is to realize that there are many angles from which to approach them. Pick one that looks promising. Try working with it. If that doesn’t work for you, try a different one. Keep changing angles until you finally get the idea. When you get the idea right, you should be able to see how it works from all of the different angles you’ve tried. That is, it suddenly occurs to me, the way a Roomba robot vacuum cleaner works. It bounces around at random, acquiring information about where obstacles are and how to get around them. It will never get into some corners of the room but as it travels back and forth it does quite a respectable job of cleaning up the room. Where it gets stuck is when it traps itself in a place that it can’t bounce out of.

  2. A taste of what Azid himself says, the opening paragraphs of the introduction to _Math, Better Explained_:

    Our initial exposure to an idea shapes our intuition. And our intuition impacts how much we enjoy a subject. What do I mean?

    Suppose we want to define a “cat”:

    *Caveman definition: A furry animal with claws, teeth, a tail, 4 legs, that purrs when happy and hisses when angry.

    * Evolutionary definition: Mammalian descendants of a certain species (F. catus) sharing certain characteristics.

    * Modern definition: You call those definitions? Cats are animals sharing the following DNA:ACATACATACATACAT….

    The modern definition is precise, sure. But is it the best? Is it what you’d teach a child learning the word? Does it give better insight into the “catness” of the animal? Not really. The modern definition is useful, but after getting an understanding of what a cat is. It shouldn’t be our starting point.

    Unfortunately, math understanding seems to follow the DNA pattern. We’re taught the modern, rigorous definition and not the insights that led up to it. We’re left with arcane formulas (DNA) but little understanding of what the idea is.

    Let’s approach ideas from a different angle. I imagine a circle: the center is the idea you’re studying, and along the outside are the facts describing it. We start in one corner, with one fact or insight, and work our way around to develop our understanding…..

  3. This is awesome. In some ways, maybe the fussiness substitutes for a lack of understanding of the critters?

    Or maybe it’s about reproducability. If you really loved that loaf of bread, what are your chances of ever having it again? I have a feeling you’d consider this a feature rather than a bug.

    But I think you should do it again and tell us whether the resultant loaf is perceptibly different from the last one. That would make the extension to general education more palatable.

    Okay, I think two unintentional puns are enough for one comment.

  4. Asher, you just want to feel kneaded, admit it.

    The point about reproducibility is right on. I think about that all the time (for example in this previous post on happy accidents). What counts as a success? As I was discussing with a colleague earlier today, for some things like grinding a camshaft or mixing up a batch of c4, the answer may be very narrow. But I think some of the true horrors of human history, both macro and micro, can be found in attempts to force narrowly specified outcomes out of human material. And there are all sorts of outcomes of breadmaking that are delicious, along with the fun of exploring the possibility space.

    Furthermore, there are practical and evolutionary advantages to a wider ‘successful’ outcome fan, at the individual, species, and biosphere levels. As I noted in a comment on that old thread, “The way biological reproduction is jury-rigged out of cludgy arrangements of chemistry and tubing pretty much guarantees reproduction-fail if the goal is perfect transmission, and the same can be said of culture. Within tolerances the resulting theme-and-variation enables a diversity that is in a sense pre-adapted to environmental variability. It’s only in extreme conditions that selection pressures are going to enforce a singular configuration, and of course that particular hyper-specialized adaptation will be highly vulnerable to changing conditions. Like academics.”

    So I think it’s very, very important to be clear about where and when we need that narrowing of outcome, and when we don’t. And in the latter case, both the procedure and its assessment need to be mindfully adapted to desirable plurality and creation of opportunities for unexpected success.

  5. both the procedure and its assessment need to be mindfully adapted to desirable plurality and creation of opportunities for unexpected success.

    Yeah, so the question is: how serious does your understanding need to be of whatever the educational analogues are to ingredients, utensils, lactobacilli, etc.?

    Part of your narrative here is getting things “basically” right. You need to understand the conditions under which fermentation will take place or be thwarted, but getting all persnickety about it is looking for an optimum that may not exist (unless you’re extremely particular about your bread, I guess).

    The other part of your narrative is a sort of “to-hand-ness” (the slope-sided bowl, the composition of the flour) of the process. This seems to suggest that whatever the analogue is to finding *exactly* the right utensils, scales, flour, water, etc. is time spent not “making bread”.

    Oh, and I guess there’s a third narrative, which is the idea that the processes at work are largely spontaneous (if that’s the right word), and that constant interference and nudging is either unnecessary or detrimental. Or that an “engineered” solution will always be more brittle than an “organic” one.

    Lots of food for thought ;).

  6. Another important aspect of the wild yeast sourdough bread model is the engagement of the senses in the project. Getting students beyond a cup of this, a tablespoon of that, to awareness of the sweet peachy smell or the tactile feel of properly kneaded dough, both essential to getting things basically right without being overly precise (which might not work very well anyway at a different altitude or humidity or barometric pressure).

  7. Savoir Faire; knowhow; Padgett bundles it all in “skill”: Bismarck had the swag.
    But seriously, folks, haven’t you caught the swindle? Candide makes sourdough bread. Yeh, and Lebron James discovers the finger roll. Carl’s “groping” stinks to high heaven of savvy — experience; repeated and reliable success; homework on the chemistry; the practiced look, smell, and feel of good dough (as John points out). Who would have bet against him in that modest expansion of the scope of his baking mojo?
    The many faces of repeatability and replication. One of my friends and section mates at Caltech was a guy named Sid Roth. (He stayed around considerably longer than I did — for good reason.) He later became moderately famous for inventing the operation that implanted an electrode in a rat’s (hypothalamus, as I remember). It opened up a whole new line of research.
    For a surprisingly long time, he was the only one who knew how to do the operation right. Think of the shower of job offers. Everybody wanted to replicate the procedure in their own lab, but for a time they couldn’t replicate
    Sid. It turns out it wouldn’t have done them much good to hire the original. At some point we ran into each other at the Swarthmore train station, and picked up our friendship for a while. Sid was wandering around trying to re-invent his career (at Penn) by doing some fairly dumpy behavioral research. Meanwhile, he was living a life of penitence for having been responsible for submitting the rat world to ghoulish and horrid indignity and pain. Sid refused to replicate himself any more. Last I saw him, he was adrift.
    Over the last couple of months, Carl and I seem to have decided that it’s both impossible and dead wrong to try to remove the skill part of intelligence in favor of the formal gloss — even in the sciences. It doesn’t hurt that we’re both pretty deeply connected to the arts, but there are dozens of ways to put the point. Recently (as Carl shows you) I’ve been doing it with INUS conditions as the lever. A few years ago I did it in the contrast between monotheistic and polytheistic science. In every case, it seems to me, the pivot point is where the private tries to go public: the personal become interpersonal. That’s where repeatability and replication live, and, obviously, where teachers, coaches, and parents live. A shared formula (or formalism) and/or the repeated performance of an experimental protocol are constitutive of the sciences’ construction of publicity, but, notice, the formula must be ASSIGNED a common understanding, and the experiment a common interpretation. Both have to be taught. Once taught, and in pursuit of the monotheistic ideal, the formulae and the experiments can be made to appear to have a life of their own. That’s Platonism, and at least as old as Socrates and the slave boy. It’s as alive as the cookbook. (see the INSIGHT link)
    Cautionary tale: That’s the road to scholasticism and the eternal deferral of informed intelligence. It’s the tragic road to current orthodox philosophy: the Nagels, Mc Ginns, et. al.
    To learn from one another we have to have trust and confidence in one another. Where does it come from? Loads of places, all useful, none eternally decisive. If I were to try to get Carl to teach me how to make bread, I’d rely a lot on the swag.

  8. Master holds up the FLASK..
    MASTER: What’s-about-this?
    FREDDIE: What about it?
    MASTER: As a Scientist and a Connoisseur I have no idea the contents of this remarkable potion. What’s in it?
    FREDDIE: Secrets.
    MASTER: Can you make more?
    FREDDIE: Maybe.

    I just frustrated the hell out of myself searching the screenplay trying but failing to find another bit of dialogue that seems relevant here — the actors must have improvised the lines. On screen we’re watching Freddie mix up one of his concoctions: some gin, whiskey, a dash of Lysol, a splash of paint thinner… The Master swills down a glassful, grimaces, shakes his head, smiles approvingly.
    MASTER: Are you trying to poison me?
    FREDDIE: It depends on how you drink it.

  9. “A few years ago I did it in the contrast between monotheistic and polytheistic science. In every case, it seems to me, the pivot point is where the private tries to go public: the personal become interpersonal. That’s where repeatability and replication live, and, obviously, where teachers, coaches, and parents live.”

    I would like to learn more about the contrast between monotheistic and polytheistic science. I missed that; but the difference between monotheistic and polytheistic religion is a topic I’ve often thought about.

    Returning to this discussion, however, it seems to me that the claim that the interpersonal is where repeatability and replication live needs refinement. Athletics, martial arts, learning to play a musical instrument or speak a new language all have this in common: they require lots of practice, a.k.a., repetition. But the repetition isn’t for repetition’s sake, to make sure that the athlete, artist or speaker always behaves in the same way. It is, to borrow Nassim Nicholas Taleb’s new book title, to make the skill antifragile, to enable the individual to respond quickly and effectively to rapidly changing situations.

    Gary Klein’s recognition primed decision making model is a serious attempt to account for what goes on in the kind of training in question, a combination of repetition and confrontation with changing circumstances. Klein argues that military training, for example, is no longer solely about getting people to behave uniformly. It is to enable them to survive and achieve their objectives in the fog of war. Experience counts because it equips those who have it with a thicker stack of mental models through which to interpret a situation and allows them to respond quickly by discarding one and moving on to another as circumstances require.

    An example close to home: My daughter was on her second deployment to the Middle East. She had just been promoted to Helicopter Aircraft Commander. A plane malfunctioned. The crew bailed out. She was in charge of the helicopter that pulled them out of the water. She remarked afterward that she had expected to be freaked out the first time that this happened to her, but that all of the endless hours of training exercises paid off. She and her swimmers did what they had practiced while maintaining situational awareness and being prepared to adapt as necessary.

  10. But seriously, folks, haven’t you caught the swindle?

    Yeah, he was pretty swaggery about it.

  11. That would be the tale swagging the Doge. And with a punchline like that, I feel no obligation to actually produce a joke.

    I like the ‘recognition primed decision’ concept very much, and the observation that engineered solutions are brittle. (Or fragile, vs. antifragile.) No doubt if you can control every single variable you can also produce rigorously consistent results. There are even ways to do that with bread, to within an undetectable approximation. But as we’re all getting at in various ways, even here what it takes to get ‘the same’ outcome – unless what you want is Wonder Bread – is an attentive deployment of thickly accumulated skill, gained over a long process of mindfully exploring the possibility space; altitude, humidity, barometric pressure, etc.; a process that can’t be short-cutted with indoctrination, and that is to a ‘recipe’ as Moby Dick is to a dictionary and a copy of Strunk and White.

    Or, there are critical reasons the world’s best winemakers and vineyards still have good years and bad years – although on balance it’s also a good thing that standardization of practices has smoothed out the bottom of the range.

    JohnM, does this sound like Dao to you?

  12. And speaking of the Dao, I think the point about understanding the conditions that enable or thwart fermentation is critically important. Fermentation just happens if the conditions are more or less right, and so does learning. We don’t have to ‘make’ sourdough any more than we have to ‘teach’, except insofar as conditions have gotten skewed enough that the ordinary autocatalysis is blocked somehow. So a lot of getting this stuff right is figuring out how we’ve managed to get in our own way, and knocking it off.

  13. Yeh. My game with that is: Are your students teachable? No. American late-adolescents are absolutely unteachable, but if you play your cards right you can get them to teach themselves.

  14. Just had lunch, the brain is sluggish. But two thoughts crawl out. When you mention the Dao, the first thing that comes to mind is what I learned from my daughter to call situational awareness. It is one of the three skill sets required of a Navy pilot. The others are the ability to rapidly assimilate a body of highly structured information, a flight plan, brief, or operating manual, and what she calls the monkey skills, the physical skills that are used unconsciously every time the aircraft maneuvers. I have often reflected on the fact that what is now called education provides none of the above. Rapid assimilation of highly structured information seems to have disappeared along with “rote learning.” Monkey skills are reserved for sport, art and music classes that are “extracurricular.” And I don’t recall ever having taken a class where situational awareness was stressed, except perhaps for driver’s education.

    The second thought is triggered by “mindfully exploring.” Much of the repetition involved in training for sport, music, language, etc. is devoted to getting the mind out of the way, since as soon as you have to think about something you slow down and are likely to stumble. Mysticism meets practicality. Zen, that is.

  15. Right. What we’re getting at is that attention is the key, but a kind of trained attention that is, in some sense, post-cognitive or metacognitive. So Zen is easy to say in a phrase: be in the moment. But what it takes for most of us to actually be in the moment is a lengthy process of learning and unlearning. And the practice has to be ‘right’ practice, and it’s always a practice of doing, not telling.

  16. Yes, yes, a thousand times yes. But…. I was thinking some more about situational awareness and realizing that I have, of course, encountered training in this area, e.g., while playing in a high school band and, now, while singing in a men’s chorus in Japan. That led me to remark on how individualistic your account of learning remains. What happens to teamwork or collective improvisation?

  17. You might like to know that this well-crafted and satisfying post served as a virulent conversation-starter in our house when I read it aloud to A and K. The previous night K had made a batch of ratatouille. She didn’t want to follow a precise recipe, preferring to acquire more of an intuitive and aesthetic feel for the process. We recalled that French cookbooks aren’t nearly as precise as their American counterparts, calling for some of this, a soupcon of that, a morceau of the other… A encouraged K to cut up *some* zucchini, eggplant, onion, garlic, etc. in good proportions, enough to feed the three of us. This seemed a mystery to K, who hasn’t done much cooking, so A offered up some general heuristics and more-or-less quantity suggestions. The dish turned out great, and we were happy to have the leftovers. K will be surely be able to generalize to other kinds of foods.

    Meanwhile A is trying to design an educational project from scratch, where she’s feeling as though she is just tossing this and that into a pot and stirring it all up, knowing neither how much of each ingredient to use nor what would constitute a good outcome. At that point we invoked the Carlo swag factor: persuade yourself and your clientele that what you’ve come up with is simply wonderful. The night before we had watched The Master, in which Freddie’s mixological magic parallels the Master’s esoteric teachings. As in cooking, so in teaching: some of the ingredients might technically be poisonous, but whether the mixture kills you or cures you depends on how you take it in. Next day I “borrowed” some of these ideational ingredients and folded them into a scene in the fiction I’m in the midst of writing. I’ll have to let it ferment for awhile before I’ll know if it works.

  18. Yay, I love it! You made my day. The thing about French cookbooks also made me laugh – I got an Italian cookbook my last time there for the amatriciana recipe, but then realized when I got to the instruction ‘versare un bicchiere di vino bianco’ – dump in a glass of white wine – that I was going to be doing some pantsing.

    Have you ever seen the show “Chopped” on the Food Channel? I’ve got a post fermenting on the genius of that show as a guide to creative improvisation.


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