The first time I tried making sourdough bread, it was a lesson in patience and humility. I had nurtured my starter for days, feeling a surge of pride with each bubble that appeared. On baking day, I meticulously followed a recipe, expecting a beautiful, airy loaf. What emerged from the Dutch oven, however, was a dense, pale brick with a crust I could barely cut. The disappointment was real, but it was also a pivotal moment. That first failure was not an end but a beginning, sparking a deep curiosity to understand the science of fermentation, the role of temperature, and the feel of properly developed dough. It taught me that the process itself, with all its variables, was the true goal.
What I love about making sourdough is the tangible connection to a living process. It is not a hurried task but a slow, mindful ritual that stands in contrast to the immediacy of modern life. Feeding the starter is a small, daily commitment to a culture that thrives on care. The act of kneading and folding the dough is meditative, a physical engagement that grounds me in the present moment. There is a profound satisfaction in pulling a beautifully browned, crackling loaf from the oven, a creation that is uniquely my own. The entire journey, from flour and water to a finished loaf, is a rewarding practice in nurturing, patience, and craftsmanship.