I named the starter Rose. I fed her flour and water and she bubbled up, full of life. I experimented with various sourdough methods. I took books out of the library, poured over variations and learned about leavens and bulk rising and proofing and shaping. I discovered how important time and temperature are in the process. Despite my avoidance to carbs, I still felt great when I ate the bread that I made.
I was hooked.
Friends and family were perplexed: You gave up carbs but now you bake bread? I know, I told them, but this is different. They tasted it and they said, “You really made this? Now I understand. Can I get some more?”
Two years later, I’m obsessed. Not just to the pleasures of eating bread, although there is that, but to the whole challenge and delight of making it.
In The Art of Eating, M.F.K. Fisher wrote, “The smell of good bread baking, like the sound of lightly flowing water, is indescribable in its
evocation of innocence and
delight... [Breadmaking is] one of
those almost hypnotic
businesses, like a dance from
some ancient ceremony. It
leaves you filled with one of
the world's sweetest
smells... there is no
chiropractic treatment,
no yoga exercise, no
hour of meditation in a
music-throbbing chapel
that will leave you
emptier of bad thoughts
than this homely
ceremony of making bread.”
I don’t know if bread baking
will replace chiropractic or
yoga practice for me, but it is a
soothing respite from, pardon the
pun, the daily grind. Making bread lets
me get my hands dirty, allows me to be present, to feel the warmth of the water and the flour and marvel at how it changes over time from a sticky mass to a smooth and silky dough. I stretch the dough, watch it rise, brush the flour off the top. I put it into the oven and hope for the best. Well-baked breads crackle and pop and sing while they cool, and I listen eagerly. Cutting into a fresh loaf is always a thrill, and tasting that first piece is a chance to see it all come together. Or not. And then I try again.
Each loaf I make is a little bit science, a little bit creative expression, a little bit luck. It feels magical somehow. It rewards focus and punishes multitasking. Bread has opened up my world far beyond my kitchen as I never expected. I’ve met fellow artisans and they’ve been generous with their experience and advice. I have discovered a whole economy of grain and the farmers who grow it. I started teaching baking classes in my home and I love passing on what I’ve learned and seeing my students bake for their families.
As much as I love making and eating bread, sharing what I make is the most rewarding part. When someone tells me they crave chocolate, I know they’ll love the chocolate sourdough I bake studded with dried cherries, and they do. For fall I worked on a pumpkin version, fragrant with warm spices, and it was a hit with my most recent bread class. I can’t wait to use my bread in stuffing this Thanksgiving and share gooey cinnamon rolls on Christmas morning. I keep a sourdough starter in the fridge at my mom’s house in Florida and I bake for her when I’m there.