A couple of months ago I made my own sourdough starter, found a few recipes online and made my first sourdough bread. It was underproof, rather flat and had massive holes just under the “roof” (I went for 85% hydration of course so it was a bit of a disaster). Later I found out that was called fool’s crumb. It was tasty though, and I was hooked.
Every weekend I now experiment with different kinds of formulas and sometimes I think I am getting somewhere. I travelled with my starter to not miss its feeding time a day before preparing the dough, I sometimes wake up at ridiculous o’clock in the morning to retrieve a cold puffy loaf from my fridge, score it, still half asleep, put it in the oven and spend another 40 minutes in restless anticipation.
The simplicity and wisdom of this centuries old process is fascinating, it keeps me grounded and sane, it takes me away from the clutter and noise, away from busy time schedules, it’s absolutely therapeutic. Just like putting my hands in the garden soil, having my fingers come in contact with the full of life, eager dough, inhaling its comforting aromas and hearing it breathe while its air bubbles expand – brings me to a peaceful, serene place, like nothing else.