The Story of Masa Madre

When I arrived in Oaxaca in December of 2018, I was a bird with cut wings. I knew my potential, but had no idea how to start flying. I was there to “learn Spanish” at the most respected language school in the city. Or at least that’s what I told my concerned parents, as I booked a one-way ticket to the unknown one month out from a life crisis that left me without a job, relationship or home.

In reality, I had no clue what I was doing, but I knew the bright-colored, heavy-wood doors I passed on the way to the market each day, the tellers of printmakers who spoke the truths of a generation with their wood tools and presses, and the señora who sold me sweet coffee each morning from a giant metal cask next to the young boy with equally as sweet conchas, held a truth in their hearts I had yet to discover in my own. And I wanted to know that secret of my heart. No, I had to know if I had a chance to live.

So, most days, after classes let out of the giant sprawling colonial “Casa” that was my escuela, I wandered. At first, I attempted an agenda. Go to this museum, check out that market. Quickly though, agendas fell away. The city had a knack for making any sort of plan melt into the right now. I would be heading somewhere with purpose, and all the sudden the sweet smell of roasting corn and the enticing site of locals waiting in line, would pull me towards what became my favorite snack: esquites - grilled corn, cut off the cob and cooked in its own juices, served  in a soup of butter, mayo, lime and chile. I had found heaven in a mini-solo cup, and completely forgot where I thought I was going. Thank God for the distractive powers of corn.

One day, on one of these wanders, I was making my way down a side street near Plaza de la Danza, and my nostrils were filled with the aroma of toasting flour. The sure tell sign of a bakery, no matter the country, I turned on my heels and followed my nose. Just up the street, I looked up to see a wooden sign plastered to an ancient door of a building that looked like it had been bombed then put back together in a haste, with classic Mexican ingenuity as glue. The sign listed the offerings of the day, under the tagline, “Pan de Masa Madre.” 

Now I was no Spanish-school sluff. I knew what all these words meant separately, but together, I was unsure and curious. I took a quick picture of the sign, making a mental note to follow up, and headed into Boulenc to experience the best chocolate croissant of my life. And it was sourdough no less! 

Masa Madre, meaning "Mother Dough" in Spanish, refers to the starter from which bread is born. It is the seed from which nourishment springs forth from flour, water and salt. It is the alchemy that takes these ubiquitous ingredients, and makes them into a culinary treasure that spans the scope of our planet’s food traditions. From masa becoming tamales and tortillas in Mexico to village-bakers forming country loaves in France; Masa Madre takes ingredients who alone are just drops in an ocean, and makes them together, an ocean in a drop. 

As I sat at the cute café table, surrounded by the romantic melodies of fluent Spanish-speakers, the soft synth sound of ambient music, and the bright light of day shining through the roof of the building, I found my heart. Amidst the buttery, flaky layers of the pan de chocolate I understood that caring for myself, for others, and for this world, has nothing to do with a prescription or a plan. No, it only has to do with being willing to expose my true self, the soft, pale bits hiding under a lifetime of guilt, anger and lies. 

The croissant was not going to fix the hole in my heart that told me I was not worthy . But it was a portal to a universe where I followed my gut, and reaped the flaky, sweet rewards.  It was a glimpse at feeling whole, which came from trusting myself. And it was a safe place to leap into knowing that with a little ingenuity and trust in my fellow humans, that next time I fell, the universe would have a pillow waiting. I was beginning to understand that the secret truth of the heart is not that secret, not if you listen. 

Masa Madre became for me, a creation story. A breathing metaphor of the inter-connectivity of all beings and things. Not yet a baker , I still deeply resonated with the idea of a seed (whether a bread starter or a grand idea), being able to nourish exponentially if it is only fed.

With nothing more than a feeling, a tingling in my chest, and a thump of the heart, Oaxaca taught me to re-see the beauty of the everyday. The city and its people demonstrated such presence of heart and purpose, how could I ignore my own journey amongst them? The more my mind learned to melt into the background, and I allowed my senses to take over; the more my eyes were opened to the beauty right in front of me. The joy of the mundane, the tangible realness of every moment was felt in the cobblestones under my feet. The tortillas “breathing” on comals in the marketplace. The children shrieking with glee as they rollerbladed past me in the park. The earnest smile of the boy, far too young to be selling crepes at midnight, yet who I visited each time I saw him, because his kind eyes translated into patience for my anglo Spanish. The present moment brought a sense of completeness I had never known.

It was many moons until I was able to put my months in Oaxaca into words, let alone, reep their lessons. But after The Day of the Pan de Chocolate, the idea of Masa Madre was firmly planted inside of me. Mother Dough became part of me, before I even understood why. Nearly a year later, on a trip to Peru, a friend would share with me some of their starter. They taught me how to feed and take care of it, andwe baked together with her. Then, I carried Rhastacana the Starter through customs and back to the U.S. having no idea of the coon coming Pandemic, or how baking and sharing food would be what sustained me — and to some extent, my community— through the Pandemic.

The understanding of ‘Masa Madre’ are still unfolding. What I am coming to understand is the journey is not about the destination, it is about the intention and care given to very path you are on.