Twice this week someone’s sent me a dried sourdough culture that has accidentally been opened by the US Post Office and encased in a “We’re Sorry” envelope. One envelope was labeled “sourdough,” but the other was a cryptic “Maui,” Bo Ure’s home grown culture.
Should I tidy up my place in anticipation of a “courtesy visit” from the postal inspector? (Or worse.)
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Jim who? Oh wait, wasn’t he the one they got on all those counts of terrorist bread?
Another irony is Google’s currently displaying an ad “Find a Post Office Job” — directing me to monster.com.
Um…sourdough laced mail. Works for me. Three years later our mail in DC is still messed up from the anthrax, and is even more messed up from the not-anthrax someone sent to the DOD a couple of months ago.
I want some sourdough starter…
WAAA!
Send me your (paper) mailing address.
Actually, we here in the San Francisco bay area have secretly paid off the post office to thwart all attempts to distribute sourdough culture anywhere else. Mwah hah hah hah! Our sourdough is the best!
:’)