Sourdough Bread

Not A Recipe

I’ve been MIA from this space intentionally…and unintentionally. Life has rocked me. It jolted loose my creative energy like a lost screw in the dark corner of the forgotten bookcase. Gone.

Not that I had many words to share anyhow, but I’ve taken an intentional step back from outputting. Narrowing the funnel through which I allow things to flow from me. Conserving energy. Focusing on what’s in front of me. Prioritizing me and my dogs.

Of late, I’ve been craving a more tactile experience. Getting my hands dirty…or in this case, sticky. Creating something tangible. With my body.

So, here’s a little bit of what I’m up to in the world of sourdough bread making - or more precisely, learning. And a story.

The Mother Bread - my new sourdough starter gifted from a friend. Sure, I could have made my own, but I prefer bread procreation instead. It’s more exciting.

Homemade recipes! Off to a solid start over here.

A tutorial on the “stretch and fold.” (With Ruger’s moral support. Definitely not begging.) Not pictured: the “coil fold.” Yeah, I know stuff.

Dough mid-rest.

“Laminating” the cheesy loaf.

“Dimpled” and decorated (toppings) focaccia dough ready to bake! Amateur focaccia tip: sun dried tomatoes burn. Suggestion: laminate into a loaf instead.

Cheesy loaf bake time!

A Sourdough Bread Story

Lift pan, turn knob, light burner. The sounds of rumbling water, birds sending secret messages, and twigs crinkling underfoot were our morning playlist as I toasted my second piece of sourdough bread on the camp stove that morning. We'd finally made it to Colorado in the van two nights before and found a beautiful dispersed camping spot on the Piedra River just feet from the squeaky, school bus passenger door of our quirky 33 year-old school-bus-van.

While I was savoring my heavily buttered toast, after I'd already eaten some cheesy scrambled eggs, a banana and my first heavily buttered piece of sourdough, swigging some bubbling kombucha between random bites, it occurred to me that those decades of my life I'd deprived myself of my favorite foods, and ultimately my nourishment, for the sake of a long list of rules to control what my body looked like, to have any semblance of control at all, were torture.

With the sun on my skin next to the river on that slow Saturday morning in Colorado, listening to the tree branches crunch while the dogs followed their noses through the dry, winter brush, I felt a deeper sense of gratitude for sourdough bread. For this food I’ve always loved. For letting myself enjoy as much of it as I want. Shame free.

I think this is what healing feels like. I think it's these breezy moments that fall between the struggle-ridden ones that remind me no path is linear. Nor are many as quick as we’d often prefer.

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But the journey’s much more pleasant with some homemade sourdough focaccia bread and a loaf of cheesy sourdough goodness. Especially when made with friends.

*Off to binge sourdough bread content so I can spread my metaphorical bread-making wings and do good by The Mother slowly fermenting in my fridge.

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MEET ME IN THE COMMENTS!

Do you chew your sourdough, or inhale it like me?

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