12/27/2025
Merry Christmas !
My sourdough journey began on a quiet afternoon with a glass jar, a scale I didn’t fully trust yet, and the belief that flour and water could somehow come alive. I remember stirring that first starter and marking the jar with elastic checking it every few hours like it might grow faster if I watched closely. It was only on the second batch that it finally bubbled, I felt an unreasonable amount of pride for something that was, essentially, fermenting on its own.
Before long, one starter turned into three. Mandy came first—reliable, calm, and steady. Candy followed, a little more unpredictable but full of energy. Sandy rounded them out, slower to rise but deeply flavorful. Each one had its own personality, and I learned quickly that they needed different kinds of care, even though they were all made from the same simple ingredients.
My first loaf I considered a success, followed by several successful baked breads. I wouldn’t consider them failures but it wasn’t perfect. I searched endlessly, learning about hydration, bulk fermentation, and overproofing through trial and error. Every mistake felt frustrating at the time, but each one pushed me closer to understanding.
The first real success is a moment I still remember clearly. I lifted the lid off the Dutch oven and heard that quiet crackle as the crust set. The loaf had sprung open beautifully. My first Sourdough with cheese insert that baked on Christmas Eve. Chatgpt gave it a 9/10 crumb grade.
As with cake, sometimes when i cut into it, the crumb wasn’t always perfect but it was airy, soft and delicious. I took photos like it was a milestone, because it was. Just like my cakes.
Mandy became my go-to for consistency, Candy surprised me with dramatic oven spring, and Sandy shone when I had the patience to let things move slowly. Feeding them became ritual—discard turning into weekend pancakes, adjusting ratios with the weather, and knowing just by smell when they were ready. I stopped watching the clock and started listening to the dough.
Sharing the bread changed everything. The first time I handed someone a warm loaf wrapped in a paper bag, I realized sourdough was never meant to stay in one kitchen. Seeing people tear into it with their hands made every failed loaf worth it.
Now, every bake is familiar but never the same. Some days the dough cooperates; other days it humbles me. But every loaf tells a story—of Mandy, Candy, or Sandy, of patience learned, and of time well spent.
This journey has taught me to slow down, trust the process, and appreciate imperfect progress. From that first hopeful stir to the rhythm I’ve found now, sourdough has become more than bread—it’s a practice, a lesson, and a joy I keep coming back to.
