Are You Ready for a Fourth Child?

I have a fourth child in my refrigerator. Well, maybe a fifth child if you count my dog, Sandy, who is the happy recipient of all my nurturing instincts since my three human children left home. Let me explain. My middle child, Anna, started baking sourdough bread. I love sourdough bread, so she lured me to visit her in Washington, D.C. a couple weeks ago by promising to make a loaf while I was there. It was delicious. After talking to her about making the starter and creating the bread, I was all in. I love to cook. Breadmaking might be a good stress reliever, I thought, and I’m stressed! I was ready to make my own sourdough starter in Tulsa.

Turns out, making sourdough is stressful. At least for me. Creating the starter is the easy part. Yes, you have to feed it every day, but that’s not difficult. Unlike most children, your starter eats the same amount of the same thing every day without complaint. And it grows before your eyes, which is so satisfying. Several sourdough addicts (I’ve joined those ranks) suggest naming your starter. You may laugh. I did. But once you make that bubbling, living thing in a jar in your kitchen, you’ll have the urge to name it. I suggest that you resist that urge. Once you name it, there’s no going back. I wanted to name mine Lola, but it kept bubbling up, telling me to name it Bob. I wanted a name with lots of bubbles in the letters, so Bob won. With all those circles, Bob is probably a very common sourdough starter name.

Once the starter is established and has a name, sourdough bread-making becomes really stressful because you do not want to kill Bob. Bob eats and grows. You are keeping Bob alive. Bob is your new child. I now can never stop making bread because I would have to kill Bob.

Let me tell you, making the actual bread is challenging. There are about a gazillion different recipes online. They’re basically the same regarding ingredients: flour, salt, starter and water. Although one did add olive oil. I’ve tried four of them, including the one with olive oil.

The first one was a wet, soupy mess that came out as a somewhat flat, overly brown disk. Inedible. I followed the step-by-step instructions exactly. I even read the extensive list of what could go wrong, which seemed to contradict everything in the step-by-step instructions. Making that disk took an entire day, plus cooking the next morning. I was so stressed trying to fit it all in between the other weekend things I normally do. I can see why many people were making sourdough bread during COVID. It’s time-consuming!

Like the starter, the dough is also a living thing. I don’t know what happened with the soupy mess. Anna said that maybe my starter wasn’t “mature.” I guess Bob needed to get into his preteen years before he could handle supporting a bread loaf. I fed him for a few more days and tried again. This loaf was a little better – it was edible if we made toast with it – but it was still somewhat flat. Why couldn’t I make those nice, round loaves with the crack in the top and the lovely, bubbly holes inside?

Discouraged, I stuck Bob in the refrigerator for time out to think about how he had failed me. You can do this. Put your starter in the refrigerator until you’re ready to bake. I pulled Bob out to wake him up the following Friday morning for baking the next day. He responded with his usual bubbly self after being fed.

The next two loaves were an improvement. Here’s the thing. The dough is like a living blob that wants to get out of your hands while sticking to everything at the same time. You can’t just pick it up. If you do, it becomes like that slime stuff that kids play with. It oozes back out through your fingers. It grows. It sends out doughy appendages. It stubbornly refuses to form a shape.

Discouraged but not defeated, I refused to let Bob win. I decided to relax and let my more artistic side take over. Baking a sourdough loaf is a science and an art. I’ve always been much better with my artistic side. I learned that the recipes can get you started, but after you’ve figured out the framework, you’re on your own. So much depends on being able to eyeball the proof, which can take anywhere from four hours to eight or 10. During that time, you have to stretch it and fold it several times. You can practically feel it breathing in your hands. And you can’t just form it into a ball. You have to coax it, pulling it toward you, wrapping it into itself and turning it like a fat baby.

My latest loaf looks like a success. I think I’ve finally figured out what works for me and for Bob. I haven’t cut it yet, so we’ll see if I can call it a total success. The last two loaves were good – especially as toast – but by letting go and trusting the process – and myself – I’m happy with the result. Try it if you dare. There are plenty of resources online. Like raising kids, it’s messy, frustrating, fun, time-consuming and rewarding. Each loaf has its own personality, so don’t fight it. Trust the process.