Park Circle snakes along the black Hillsborough River in Tampa, Florida. A boundary line separating the Old Seminole Heights and Sulfur Springs neighborhoods. Here the river flows south then takes a sharp bend north, forming a downward arrow. Near the point of the arrow is the home of a baker.

Floor to ceiling windows and a kitchen skylight brighten the 1980s cottage. The baker is baking sourdough bread. Wheat is a tall grass with a head of braided berries. The berries, or grain, are smashed and sifted into a silky powder we call flour. Inside flour are naturally occuring micro fungi called yeasts. When you mix flour and water the yeast's cells hydrate, allowing them to feast on sugars within the flour. This yeast feast, also known as fermentation, produces alcohol and carbon dioxide. The baker brings out a leaven, a slimy bubbling concoction of flour and water he mixed the night before. The leaven, gone through fermentation, is what expands bread into its fluffy texture.

The baker turns the handle of his kitchen sink. Water, sourced from the Hillsborough River, is processed by the Tampa Water Department, and then pumped through his kitchen pipes. He adds 350 grams of water to a large mixing bowl, plops in 100 grams of his leaven, adds 500 grams of bread flour, and mixes. He covers the bowl with a kitchen towel for 30 minutes.

Stepping into his living room, he peruses his record collection, and pulls out Amperland, NY by Pinegrove. He slips the record from its sleeve, sits it on the player, and clicks a button. It spins. He takes a brush and tickles the vinyl for a couple rotations. The press of another button, and the needle bows to a groove. A crackle, guitar strokes, some snare, then alt country vocals. He turns a knob. He likes it loud.

The alarm goes off. He adds 10 grams of salt and mixes. He fills another bowl with water, and baptizes his right hand. He digs his wet hand under the edge of the fleshy dough, gently grips, and pulls it over the top. He stretches the dough like this a few times, then allows the dough to rest for an hour.

He throws on some sneaks and walks out the front door. He strolls through sunny Park Circle, passing a queer mix of houses. A davy crockett looking two story log cabin, with a red brick chimney slicing through its roof. A riverfront modern boxy three story, with a king kong wooden gate for a garage door. Next door, a mini creek branches off the river. It leads to the ruins of a natural spring pool. Perhaps in its prime, a luxurious spa. Now a swampy bath, patronized by storks and a polka dotted guinea hen.

Further down, the coffee river passes Alan Wright park. Possibly the smallest park in Tampa. Here a tiny red bridge crosses a small stream ending at what looks like an ancient hot tub. The park is named for Alan ‘Mr. River’ Wright, a Seminole Heights resident and urban planner for the city.

After WWII, Tampa had a population boom. The city's sewers couldn't keep up and, unfortunately, necessary enhancements were deferred. In 1979, a wastewater station failure led to the dumping of sewage, shite and all, into the river for months. The incident killed off marine life, and left a foul stench along the river and into Tampa Bay. For months, the wretched odor chased locals away from the river, Bayshore Boulevard, and the Davis Island district. At this time when it was most polluted, Alan Wright became the river's champion. He started an annual Hillsborough River cleanup day and advocated for the city to protect its waterways.

“What is that?”. A most common question, when first sighting the white washed fairytale tower. In the 1920s, the water tower was commissioned by the Sulfur Springs Hotel to increase water pressure to its resort and alligator farm. The hotel fell on hard times during the great depression and eventually went bankrupt. The tower property then became a drive-in theatre, and in the early 2000s went up for sale. Prospective buyers were Walgreens and a car lot salesman. Alan Wright wouldn’t have it. He convinced the city to purchase the land to build a park. The now River Tower Park, trails along the river and ends at the tower. A few years later Alan lost his battle with cancer, but his legacy of service stands tall like the white tower. His ashes were spread in the river by his life partner, John.

Back in the kitchen, the baker allows the creamy dough to nap for four hours, giving it a little massage every 30 minutes. He gently tucks the dough in for an overnight sleepover in the fridge.

The next day, he preheats his conventional oven to 500 degrees, and places a cast iron bowl inside. Oven mitts equipped, he places the dough on parchment paper into the iron vessel. He tosses in two big ice cubes and tops it with a heavy lid to form a baby sauna. After 20 minutes, he removes the lid and bakes for an additional 25 minutes. The oven then gives birth to a caramel crusted composition of flour and river water.

Over the decades, Tampa has made many improvements to its sewage infrastructure. However, continued population growth and more frequent storms require more to be done. During the 2024 twin hurricanes, due to power loss and overflowing manholes, millions of gallons of wastewater entered Tampa Bay waterways.