Baking Bread

At the end of the year, I took stock on lessons learned and things accomplished in 2019 and my sourdough starter made both lists.

Adam and I attempted to build and maintain a sourdough starter years ago. Like, maybe as far back as 2014. It was… unsuccessful. The bread was dense and never rose. The starter always seemed to be lacking life. And, we gave up on it all together. For years.

But, over the summer I found find myself gravitating towards sourdough focused Instagram pages lusting over beautiful round, gold loaves. I got googley eyed watching bakers score the dough in artful designs that shifted- as if magic- as the bread baked. 

I wanted to do it too. I wanted to make pretty sourdough bread. I also wanted to eat really good, fresh sourdough bread. (With lots of butter and/or super juicy late August tomatoes… but, I digress.)

I came into this project fully understanding that my “why” was rooted mainly in aesthetics; but, the bonus of great food was a supporting factor in my follow through. 

… As things are with most of my endeavors. 

[See also: Adventures in egg laying hens- pretty and yummy fresh eggs; Gardening- gorgeous, abundant vegetables; and, now, sourdough- pretty Instagram pics and #carbs.]

However, like in gardening and raising chickens, what I am finding in making sourdough bread is so much more than just beauty and good food; but, also lessons.

Lessons in faith and life, longing and simplicity and sitting still. Lessons in mistake making, in care and in trying again. Lessons in love, trust, my own instincts and motherhood. I finding all of this in every loaf of sourdough bread.

I ordered a dehydrated sourdough starter on Amazon (as one does these days…). You can make one on your own, but that is what we did the first time and I thought better to go with the pro’s and get their well packaged instructions to come with it. 

The cute envelope arrived full of the well designed print instructions and recipes I desired and I got started right away. I followed their steps to a T- a challenge for this Enneagram 7- but, I did it. 

Again. 

And, again. 

But, every day things didn’t look right. I kept telling myself, “one more day” and “be patient.” I know enough about building and growing something that sometimes it doesn’t look like much for a while.

… Inside, I worried I had killed the starter before I even got started.

Finally, about ten days in, I took matters into my own hands. The starter still clearly wasn’t taking. I pitched the instructions that I had clung to for nearly two weeks and I scoured the internet. I compared notes, studied a few YouTube videos and I gleaned pieces of this and that… and I tried again. 

I brought in new tools- like a kitchen scale, which proved to be key- to help. I found my own method and it took. Every day my starter looked better and better until it was clear it was thriving.

Then, I made my first loaf. 

Ya’ll. 

I was like a proud momma with that thing. I photographed it. I bragged on Instagram about it. And, both Adam and my mom got immediate “Look what I MADE!” texts.

Then, I made another and another. Every time was a little different. Every time I learned something new. 

A few didn’t work out- or just at least not at first. I had to observe the dough, consult with the internet experts, take what I had learned and combined it with that feeling in my gut to move forward. Even if the conditions were not right or it didn’t look right, I would figure out how to get back on track. Every time the dough surprised me with its ability to bounce back. 

What also surprised me? The time it takes to make one loaf. ONE loaf takes THREE days. One time, as I stared at a beautiful ,just baked loaf of bread, the entrepreneur in me wondered, “I wonder how can I scale this so I can sell them?”

You don’t, Claire.

You don’t turn your kitchen into a bakery. You don’t become a bread baker for the masses. Because: 

1. You can’t. Hello? You want to write books, market a farm, be present and fun for kids, pursue that husband you like to smooch on occasion and maintain a day job. You CAN’T.

2. You don’t want to. You don’t want to cheapen this process, scale it or make it a chore.

There is magic here.

It is the same kind of magic I find in gardening and raising babies. All of it requiring faith in things you cannot see. Faith in the process. Faith that the elements are right and ready. Also maintaining, faith in myself, the work I have done, my care and intuition.

And, as with growing babies or tomatoes, raising chickens or raising bread there isn’t clear cut instructions. You can read all the acclaimed books. You can follow all the recommendations and “tried and true” steps. But, this kind of building isn’t like just punching code into a computer and yielding the same results every time. These things are physical. They require attention and observation. The need intuition and even a little moxie. They may need a little course correction, but always will surprise me with their resilience.

Sometimes to do their best, I need to walk away. I need the garden, bread or even my own kids to do things and grow on their own. Plus, I cannot see the work or changes if I sit and stare. But, if I give them a little time and space more often than not, I find something new- and stronger- when I return. In order to rise, the baker has to release control. In order to grow, the gardener must release control. In order to mature, the parent must release control.

And, also somewhere in the rise and growth, there must be hope. The mother, the gardener, the caretaker of animals and the baker must all find the hope and belief that it will all work out. That it will be good.

And, whether it is- or it isn’t- they must also keep the hunger and come back for more.

More growth. More Love. More faith. Another chance to rise and make a little magic.