Lessons from Layered Sourdough
Is homemade sourdough bread supposed to have layers? Like the earth with its mantle, crust, outer and inner core? Mine does. When you cut it open, it’s almost like a cross-section of where an earthquake has occurred. It’s not fluffy or round or golden, and it certainly doesn’t have the pretty score marks on top like the picture-perfect loaves crafted by professional bakers. But fresh and hot out of the oven, with enough butter (that is key), it tastes pretty darn good. It’s good enough that both loaves I’ve made have been consumed, mostly by someone other than me.
It is very much unlike me to stand for an extended time period in the kitchen, hands covered in flour, kneading dough — over and over and over, triggering a moderate case of tennis elbow. And yet, I’ve done it…twice. It occurred to me that in order to be congruent, perhaps I should also starch and iron Chip’s underwear and churn some butter. I felt like a character from Little House on the Prairie, minus the apron and the bun.
At first, I was giddy at the idea of making a sourdough starter that I would use to bake my very first amazing loaf of homemade sourdough bread. I started strong, actually enjoying the process — measuring the flour and the water into the jar the very first day and then “feeding” it every day to see it come alive and, theoretically, double in size as it became ready to bake with. When it didn’t double within a few days, I became frustrated. But I stuck with it.
A friend showed me how to use a kitchen scale to make sure my flour and water were just right when “feeding” my starter. That lasted two days. It’s quicker to dunk a measuring cup into the flour bag and throw it into the jar.
When my starter continued to flunk the “sink” test (if it floats in a glass of water, it’s ready for bread), I became so impatient, I decided to dump it into the mixing bowl, add more flour and water along with some yeast for good measure, and make bread with it anyway. It wouldn’t win any contests, but thanks to the existence of butter, the end result was OK.
Despite being shamed by folks on social media for being one of those NON-bakers who is trying to make sourdough bread only because I’m home quarantined due to the COVID-19 situation, I persevered through the tedious process — feeding, discarding (using the discard for waffles and crackers so not to waste it), attempting the float test over and over, weighing on a scale, measuring in a cup, marking the rise of the starter with a Sharpie on my mason jar. You would think I was a midwife attending a birth that lasted two weeks.
It was just too much for me. The marginally tasty loaves I produced are not enough motivation for me to babysit a jar of flour and water every day. The truth is, I am willing to feed my kids and my dogs every day. Nothing else. I am not built for activities that require prolonged, precise, measured attention to detail.
I wish I could say that my sourdough adventure taught me a lesson in patience. That if you stick in there and persevere, you will enjoy a beautiful, delightful reward in the end. My reward was not beautiful, and it required a fair amount of butter to take it anywhere near the realm of delightful.
Instead, my personal takeaways were 1) Choose adventure. You never know if you will enjoy something unless you give it a shot. 2) After you’ve given it a fair shot, be willing to say, “This isn’t for me.” And in the words of Stuart Smalley, “…that’s OK.”
I could have continued chasing a perfect (or even halfway appealing) loaf of sourdough. But I had to be honest with myself — did I enjoy the tedious process enough to endure it for a loaf of homemade sourdough? Was it worth it? If I lived on the prairie with Ma and Pa Ingalls and had to drive a horse and buggy 50 miles to the nearest town to purchase a loaf of sourdough for double my farm wages, I would have to say yes. But there’s a lady in town who bakes sourdough for a living and LOVES doing it. It’s her passion. I will give her my business and not continue attempting to accomplish something that makes me crazy. Then I can give my time to my own passions and bring to the table the best of what I can offer….which clearly isn’t a lovely loaf of sourdough.
It’s easy to focus on the destination. That is our tendency. But most of life is journey, not outcome. If we find ourselves constantly and consistently wrestling with the process, the means to the end, the journey itself, solely because there is an ideal outcome waiting for us at the end, maybe it’s time to say, “I tried this, and it’s not for me.”
And that’s OK.
