Right, so “dunking over Shaq.” Sounds epic, doesn’t it? Like something out of a highlight reel that plays on repeat. Most folks think of the actual, you know, basketball feat. But for me, that phrase took on a whole different meaning during a weird period a while back. It wasn’t about flying through the air; it was about something far more… doughy.
My Own Personal “Shaq”
My “Shaq,” the giant I had to overcome, wasn’t a seven-foot dude on a basketball court. Nope. It was a sticky, temperamental blob of flour and water. I’m talking about my attempt to master sourdough bread. Yeah, laugh all you want. While everyone else was making easy-peasy banana bread during those stay-at-home days, I decided I needed to conquer the Mount Everest of home baking. The kind with the perfect “ear,” the airy crumb, the whole fancy bakery look. What was I thinking?
And let me tell you, that sourdough starter? That was the real Shaq. That thing had a mind of its own, mostly a bad one. It just sat there, mocking me.
- First off, just getting the starter to actually live and breathe felt like a ridiculous, unwinnable game. I’d feed it, coddle it, whisper sweet nothings to it. Most days? It just stared back, flat and lifeless.
- Then came trying to understand all the weird lingo. “Autolyse,” “bulk fermentation,” “stretch and fold.” It felt like trying to learn ancient hieroglyphics from a bunch of online gurus who all said different things but made it sound like a piece of cake.
- My first attempts at actual loaves? Oh boy. We’re talking dense, heavy pucks. You could’ve used them as doorstops, maybe even defensive weapons. Definitely not something you’d proudly show anyone.
The Grind and The “Dunk” (Sort Of)
So, what was my genius plan for this sourdough beast, this personal practice of mine? I basically just kept throwing flour and water at it, day after day, like some kind of kitchen lunatic. I read every blog, watched hours of videos of people effortlessly shaping perfect loaves. My kitchen, meanwhile, usually looked like a flour factory had exploded. My wife started giving me the look every time she walked in. The smell of a failed, overly sour starter? Let’s just say it wasn’t an air freshener.
It was incredibly frustrating. Felt like I was just banging my head against a wall, a very sticky, yeasty wall. This was supposed to be bread, you know? Just bread! How could it be this complicated? But this sourdough monster seemed determined to prove I was an idiot. Every time I thought I’d finally figured it out, I’d pull another flat, gummy frisbee out of the oven. It wasn’t just about trying; it was this constant, nagging feeling of total incompetence.
The “dunk,” if you can even call it that, wasn’t some glorious, slow-motion highlight. There was no net-swishing moment. It was more like, after weeks of punishment and countless failed experiments, I finally baked something that didn’t immediately qualify for the trash can. Then, another one that was, you know, slightly less embarrassing. It was like, instead of actually dunking over Shaq, I just managed to, I don’t know, maybe make him stumble a bit, or perhaps I got a lucky shot in when he wasn’t paying attention. Tiny, almost pathetic little wins, that’s what they were.
So, this whole “dunking over Shaq” practice, my battle with the sourdough, it taught me something. Sometimes the big, scary challenge, the “Shaq” in your life, is just some ridiculous mountain you’ve built up in your own head. And “dunking,” or winning, isn’t always about a spectacular finish line. More often, it’s about surviving the brutal grind, feeling like a complete fool most of the time, and then, just maybe, ending up with something that’s not a total disaster. Less about achieving glory, and more about just not wanting to admit defeat to a stubborn pile of goo, I guess. That, and I finally got a decent sandwich out of it.
