The Proof is in the Rise: Ruminations on Sourdough’s Current Cultural Moment

I understand now why people have been baking bread like mad during the pandemic. I’ve never baked bread before, other than boxed quick mixes, which hardly seem like the real thing. Is this sacrilege? I am the daughter of a restaurateur whose first love is baking. Yet I’ve never known the experience of diving fingers first, wrist-deep into a bowl of flour and water and salt and life.

A little shy of a week ago friends gifted me a portion of their sourdough starter. It came home with me in a gallon-sized mason jar, bubbling away. It smells like beer. The texture is akin to the papier-mâché sludge we used to make terrible crafts in elementary schools that our parents would hoard as treasures. As it’s alive, I debated naming it. I told the cat she now had a roommate, and competition for attention.

I was counseled that if I didn’t plan to use it within a week or so to put it in the fridge, so the clock began. Would I successfully get to it during the week, or relegate it to cold dormancy, which felt like a sort of failure? Reading the recipe, a simple, one-page how-to from Paul Hollywood’s book, there was a lot of inactive time involved. After the initial knead, a 5-hour proof, followed by portioning and another 10–13 hours resting and rising.

The first lesson from the bread: Patience and time management. It would necessarily span two days. The question was just which two, and exactly when and how.

I decided that Sunday, Mother’s Day, would be my day to start it, with Monday morning the time to bake. This would be harder if I had to go to an office or otherwise tend to pressing life. So, the vagaries of pandemic scheduling make this more feasible.

First I weighed out my flour. Then my salt. It turns out I did not have a good internal reference for how much 750 grams of flour would be, and then 500 grams of the starter slurry. As it happens, quite a bit. Which makes sense, logistically, considering the recipe indicates it makes two loaves. But I had to see it with my own eyes.

Lesson number two: There is a reality to living something, rather than just conjecture and guestimates. I had to feel the weight.

It also happened that I inadvertently used up nearly all the starter. Another measuring error. Or, perhaps, less an error than ignorance. Now I know roughly what 500 grams of starter looks like, and I will tend to the remaining starter better, feeding it and letting it grow more amply before raiding its reserves.

Lesson number three: You can’t force life to happen. You have to tend it, taking what it will give, but no more.

When I added the water to the flour, salt, and starter mix, and sunk in my hand, my first reaction was to the texture. It was smooth, but quickly became sticky and harder to work through. I dug in, scraping at the flour on the bottom and sides of the bowl, entreating it to combine with the quickly dissipating moisture in the bowl. Ultimately, I added another 50 grams or so of water, and that made all the difference. All of a sudden, I had dough.

Lesson number four: Adaptation. Sometimes you have to admit when something isn’t working.

Moving onto the kneading phase, the real work began. It was an effort to twist and push the dough, to coax the glutens into binding, stretching, and developing their internal fortitude. If it stuck to the counter, I added a bit more olive oil. For several minutes, which felt longer, I worked with the dough. I tried to let it tell me what it needed, even though its language isn’t one in which I’m fluent. I started to sweat from the exertion.

Lessons number 5 and 6: Kneading as emotional catharsis. I could channel two months of frustration, anxiety, fear, and anger into each motion. The repetition was meditative. And, the work itself was hard. But the only choice was to go with it, and understand that the work was towards a better end.

After the first 5-hour rise, I nearly gave up. It hardly seemed to grow at all. The recipe had indicated it should double in size — or even more. I was, as it were, deflated. All my kneading and coaxing, for nothing? But tossing it in the bin seemed imprudent, and defeatist. I’d come this far, the very least I could do was passively let it sit another 10 to 13 hours and see what happened.

Lesson number 7: Things don’t always work as promised, but there’s also no real value or point in conceding defeat before all proper attempts are made. You might as well persevere. Growth can happen even unexpectedly.

Sure enough, overnight the two loaves did rise. More than a little thrilling as a tentative outcome. I lifted the edge of the proofing bag to poke at one. It didn’t exactly spring back under my touch, as Mr. Hollywood advised it should. But taking heart that at least they’d risen in size appropriately what could be next other than to bake.

I lined a tray with parchment, and rolled the ball as delicately as I could from the bowl to the baking sheet. I noticed that it didn’t hold its shape, rather flattening somewhat. My hunch was that wasn’t altogether right, but, again, forward we go.

Midway or so during its baking time, I could smell what was distinctly bread. Bits of yeast and flour. I could picture the crust hardening and setting, taking on a toasted hue. I hoped that aroma portended something edible.

Bringing the first loaf out of the oven, I noticed some change of color on top, more so on the bottom. Maybe it could be a little browner, but I think it’s okay? I rapped at it. Bread is supposed to sound and feel hollow when you knock at its bottom. That means the gluten has created the desirable air pockets inside the loaf’s structure. My impression was it was going to be on the denser side.

I waited as long as I could muster to let the first loaf cool before I had to slice in and see for myself. As expected, a touch dense in the crumb structure, but discernibly bread. I ate the whole end piece without butter or any accompaniment, musing on the slight sourness, and the crust’s crisp snap. Not too bad for a first go, I think.

Lesson number 8: I will try again. I will not run out of angst to knead through. My starter is bubbling in its jar on the counter, and I will feed it again in another day or so. I think I might name the sludge Sister. The pandemic has tried us all. It will continue to. We have all had to confront in one way or another our capacities to self-sustain. An imperfectly homemade loaf of sourdough feels like just the right illustration of our collective will to survive. Now I understand.