The Ender

I’m an accomplice to murder.

Worse, Tamie stuffed the remains of the body into our garbage disposal and now I’m probably going to need a plumber. Apparently, a sourdough starter should never go down the sink. Even if it’s already dead.

In case you’re not familiar with sourdough starters, they’re essentially colonies of wild yeast and bacteria that survive on regular meals of flour and water. When nurtured, they bubble, multiply, and become flavorful; when neglected, they sour, blacken, and cause marital disputes.

Our starter, which Tamie named Mrs. Puff, was a gift from a dear friend and former neighbor. Her intentions were good: she’d recently started making fresh sourdoughs and assumed we’d also enjoy the experience. This was largely based on the fact she’d once seen us eat bread. And after twenty years of living next door, she had little reason to suspect we were capable of killing an entire microbial ecosystem.

In hindsight, she shouldn’t have entrusted Mrs. Puff to Tamie, though it’s hard to fault her reasoning. If you’ve met us, you know Tamie is the more responsible one. And the least likely to commit a felony. She’s loving, joyful, and naturally generous—the kind of person who sees a need and quietly steps in to help. She volunteers at her church and homeless shelters and tirelessly works to strengthen relationships between our kids, grandkids, extended family, and friends. When it comes to caregiving, she is the unequivocal choice.

For people.

For everything else, there’s me. I’ve been in charge of our indoor ficus since 1997, for example, and our Toyota truck since 2009. I once kept a pet snake alive for thirty-three years, despite Tamie’s belief he shouldn’t have survived twenty. I’ve also fostered multiple generations of barn spiders.

Had Mrs. Puff been put in my care, she’d still be alive today, feeding nations.

I should’ve intervened, but the naming threw me off. When Tamie started using “Mrs. Puff” instead of “it,” I thought she’d turned a new leaf—that she was committed to Mrs. Puff’s wellbeing and other equally important matters. I briefly imagined the two of us welcoming this spring’s spiderlings into our yard by name.

Tamie placed Mrs. Puff in our refrigerator—at eye level—so I could check on her whenever I opened the door for a snack. It was fun, at first. Mrs. Puff confidently expanded in her jar and stayed beautifully tanned and healthy for the first few weeks.

After that, she began to shrink and darken. I suggested food and water, but Tamie assured me this was normal and Mrs. Puff was just being dramatic. So I watched—at eye level—her slow, agonizing demise. Instead of bubbling with joy during my visits, she pleaded with me to end her misery.

It felt like I was living in a house of horrors.

Tamie seemed unfazed. She continued using the refrigerator as if it weren’t a climate-controlled torture chamber. Not me. I nearly had to give up snacking.

Fortunately, Mrs. Puff finally proved herself sufficiently dead. After dumping her down the sink, Tamie called our friend to share the news and was promptly and unbelievably offered another one.

This is how people become serial killers.