The first time I attempted to make a sourdough loaf, it was a humbling experience. I had nurtured my starter for a week, feeling a sense of pride with each daily feeding. On baking day, I meticulously followed a recipe, expecting a beautiful, airy crumb and a crisp, caramelized crust. The reality was a dense, pale brick that was nearly impossible to cut. The dough had been under-proofed, and my scoring technique was timid, resulting in a loaf that was more suitable for building materials than for eating. It was a stark lesson in patience and the living nature of sourdough, proving that the process demands respect and a willingness to learn from failure.
Despite that initial setback, I find a deep satisfaction in the entire process of bread making. I appreciate the tactile connection to my food, from feeling the dough transform under my hands during kneading to the anticipation of watching it rise. The methodical nature of the steps provides a calming rhythm, a welcome contrast to the constant rush of daily life. There is a primal joy in pulling a golden, fragrant loaf from the oven, a simple creation that fills the kitchen with warmth. Ultimately, I love making bread because it is a rewarding practice in patience and presence, yielding a tangible, nourishing result from just flour, water, salt, and time.