GINGY THE GINGER BUG
Bonjour, Bitches.
Not everything begins quietly.
Some things arrive with a presence.
Gingy was one of those.
She wasn’t born in Dundee like Mac Dough,
in a cold kitchen where patience was required just to survive.
No.
Gingy was born in Tayport.
In a warmer, better-equipped kitchen.
The kind of place where things didn’t have to struggle quite as much to come to life.
And honestly?
She acted like it.
By the time she came into existence,
I had already learned a few things.
I had a proper jar.
I had access to sugar sitting right there in the cabinet.
And, most importantly,
I had a microplane.
Which meant this time,
the ginger wasn’t hacked apart and tossed in.
No—this was precise.
Grated fine.
Intentional.
Sharp.
A knob of ginger, grated down.
Sugar.
Water.
And just like that…
Gingy.
And from the very beginning,
she was different.
Where Mac Dough needed tending and time,
Gingy came in with energy.
Spicy.
Active.
Unapologetically alive.
The kind of presence that doesn’t ask permission to take up space.
And maybe that’s why, in my head,
she introduced herself the way she did—
bonjour, bitches.
No hesitation.
No soft entry.
Just… here.
From head to toe—
spice.
Not subtle.
Not reserved.
Not trying to be anything other than exactly what she is.
And honestly?
That made her just as fascinating to work with.
Because fermentation doesn’t always teach you the same lesson twice.
Mac Dough taught me patience.
Stillness.
Trust in slow growth.
Gingy?
Gingy taught me to work with energy when it’s already moving.
To not try to tone it down.
Not try to control it.
But to meet it.
Because some things don’t need coaxing.
Some things come alive the moment you create the conditions.
And the only question is
whether you’re ready to keep up.
She didn’t ask to be handled gently. She expected to be handled correctly.
