There are places that carry a little something extra. You can’t quite put your finger on it… but you can feel it. There’s so much noise from the voices of those you love, that you barely notice that almost imperceptible smell. 
Except in the fall. When you visit in the fall, that fresh smell is almost overpowering, and you could almost weep for the time you have lost since you last visited.
It wasn’t until we came home from the lake, and I started making the same old sourdough English Muffins again, that the boys noticed it.
“Mom, what are you doing different to the sourdough?”
“Nothing… it’s the same starter.”
“Well, these English Muffins don’t taste as good.”
And the English Muffins started piling up, instead of disappearing.
I remember learning somewhere that sourdough picks up the yeast in the air — so a sourdough starter from San Francisco will soon taste like the air in your hometown, where your starter lives.
And so, it is with this sourdough starter. The taste of the lake has faded off of our starter, and we can no longer taste our summer at the lake.