“I open the ole Mason jar, and instead of the usual bubbling noises, I’m just met with screaming,” stated Mackenzie Gatlinberg, the fourth—and likely final—recipient of the generational sourdough starter. “Whenever I go to take a scoop, all the yeast is fighting to board the spoon. It feels like a scene from Titanic, but this time, the people want to drown. Or, I guess, be burned alive inside a loaf of bread.”

“I feel like I oughta toss Sam out. That’s what I named him—Sam. Sam the Suicidal Sourdough Starter. A lot of S’s, I know,” laughed Mackenzie, taking a fresh loaf out of the oven. “Whenever I turn away, he’s always inching his way toward the garbage disposal or trying to get licked up by one of our terriers. Sometimes I feel bad and get close to throwing him out back and just letting the birds have him, but then I remember my great-great-grandmother making him way back when. He’s her baby. I can’t kill a baby.”

At press time, the words “when will it end?” appeared toasted into a piece of the sourdough.