Loaves

I am making this a necessary term for the process that encompasses the art of keeping and baking sourdough.

…sourdoughing is like fishing. It only really is fun when you don’t care about the results. When you are just doing it for fun. You do it, not because you have to, but because you can. Just because you can.

I imagine, way back when, back when it was necessary. You had to do it. It wasn’t a choice. It certainly wasn’t trendy. It wasn’t something you did because all your friends were doing it.

And my Lord, what kind of homemaker am I if I am not sourdoughing, too? Can one even be considered a true homemaker without it?

The pressure to keep sourdough reminded me of the same pressure I felt a decade ago, when it seemed every woman of child-bearing age was having children. And well, there was me. Wanting what they had, but, alas, could not for years.

That feeling of unworthiness. Those lies. You are not a woman without a child.

You are not a good homemaker, homesteader, mother, wife, without a sourdough baby.

After the 6th starter dying (all due to my neglect), I gave up. I’m not meant to be a mother, a sourdough mother, I mean.

A year passed, one morning I woke up, texted my sourdoughing friends, friends who make the most incredible loaves I’ve ever tasted, manna from heaven I tell you…instead of being intimidated, I decided to lean on them.

“Anyone got some starter I can have?”

They gave me a few tips. Nothing overwhelming. God speed.

With no expectations, no pressure, nothing rushing me, totally at peace, I fed the sacred starter. A piece of my dear friend, I thought. A link.

I mixed, I stretched, I occasionally checked in, in between I went about my day, until finally, when it was ready, it rose.

So, I baked. Tap, tap. Out of the oven it went.

Golden. Darn near perfect.

It was late. My husband stayed up to be the first to taste.

Well?

“I’m proud of you.”

It wasn’t what I was expecting to hear. He meant it. He said it like, “see I told you you could do it.”

You are capable.

You are worthy.

So I did it again the next week.

And my tribe of men devoured the loaf. They mourned the last slice.

There is something about this sourdough. It’s unlike my yeast loaves. Sourdough is special. To them, at least.

It’s life-giving. It feeds their bellies with joy (they seriously smile when they eat it). And that feeds my heart. So I shall feed it.

And like fishing, and finally getting pregnant once you’ve thought you’d thrown in the towel…I will do it, not because I have to, not because I am desperate, not because it makes me worthy, but because I get to. Because it is worth the late night memory of my husband lathering a delicious layer of butter unto a fresh, warm slice, watching his face in the candle light, and witnessing a glimmer of gratitude. Not because the loaf was perfect, nowhere near as good as my friends’ loaves, but gratitude that I did it. That I did it joyfully. That I did it for them.

~Casey