To Anna, who will forever be one of my greatest teachers.
I went to San Francisco recently. Being in America’s sourdough capital, I took some time to reflect on what it was I came there for: sourdough.
What makes you a sourdough baker? In the time I’ve spent learning how to make sourdough bread over the last year — reading all I can, watching every video that pops up on my YouTube feed and making just about 100 loaves — I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s the same thing that makes you a writer, runner or leader. It’s one of those things that you just do enough times, care enough about and viola, you’re an insert-the-thing-you-do-er.
When you stare at sourdough enough, when you question why this loaf rose way faster than the previous one, what in the world you did to make this one, for once, actually come together again after almost ceremoniously coming apart, you learn a lot. It’s a lot like building a friendship. I know how it sounds, but hear me out. Here’s what I’ve learned about sourdough baking.
1. Time is the most important ingredient.
This is what Ken Forkish writes in his book “Flour Water Salt Yeast: The Fundamentals of Artisan Bread and Pizza,” which is a classic in the world of bread-baking. My best loaves have been the ones I’ve given the most time to. A longer fermentation means more complex flavor, always. All that time, all that back-and-forth and, yes, sometimes agony, is eventually worth it. I’ve learned to even start loving the process, awkward bits and all, as I go. It doesn’t mean that it’s always the best option, though.
When you don’t have the energy to go through the usual 24 hours or more of planning, tending to and then baking the dough, sometimes you just want to chow down on a loaf that took you a couple of hours on a Sunday to make. Sometimes you can’t do complicated or deep or thought-out. That’s OK. On occasion, you can even like the simpler taste more. But time and time again, the sourdough will be your most rewarding loaf because it takes the most time.
What does time do for sourdough?
Well, first it gives you more keeping time. The more time you invest into making the bread, the longer it will last. Secondly, it gives you complexity. It’s the bread you’ll always keep coming back to because you have such a history with it. There’s so much more to appreciate when you know all that went into it. It becomes more than just this mass of molecules in front of you — it becomes a story.
The starter, for example, the little pinch of fermented dough that serves to breathe air into the bread, could have been started decades ago. There’s nothing stopping it from having roots centuries back, if you can believe it.
What do you give up with time, though?
Well, time makes sourdough harder to make. It’s easier to make a straight dough, one where you mix all the commercial yeast in with the other ingredients and boom, a couple hours later, you have a loaf. I’ve made plenty of straight doughs. There’s a lot to be said for them. They’re nice to have. Sometimes you’ll get them to stick around a little while, too, but I just never find myself gasping in such awe at the crumb, feeling as proud of the oven spring, because I know how simple they are to make. I promise, I’m not a masochistic baker. Call it old-fashioned, but to me, it’s just not the same. The sourdough-baking process is reminiscent of the way that bread was made thousands of years ago: the sourdough, or “levain,” naturally leavened method. I’d rather have one sourdough loaf over the half a dozen straight doughs I could’ve made in that time. I know there’s a whole world out there — still so much more that can be created with just the basics and a lot of time.
2. You have to trust it’ll find its way.
This has been the absolute hardest thing for me to learn. I’m still getting there.
There’s a lot that’s out of your control when baking bread, especially when you’re starting out. I think the same rule applies to bread-baking and writing — write anyway, even when you have writer’s block or you feel you have nothing important to show the world, even when you feel you’re not good enough to produce a poem, that there’s no way it’ll come together, even after the first few initial mistakes. Maybe you think you’re just better off alone, just you and your silence, where no mistakes can be made and you just write because what’s the better option?
I’ve always loved the crappy loaves I’ve made because they teach me what to do better next time. I can pretty easily tell what I do wrong in a bread now, which still happens all the time, as much as it’s hard to admit. But no mistake cuts as deep as the lack of trust. Its absence can make all preparation go to waste. Its presence can create the greatest beauty you can imagine.
The truth is, you have to let the dough look all pudgy and messy sometimes before getting your ideal result — you just have to. Sometimes it will be all clean. I’ve had some loaves like that. But when you have those moments of panic that maybe this is all over, so soon after it’s started, and then, despite your worst fears, you find a way to save it again, and again, and again, you learn that what you’re doing isn’t saving a sinking ship at all. What you are doing is learning to swim, and sometimes this is the only way to learn. So close to drowning every time. It isn’t something you can just read books about or watch others do — you need to get your hands dirty, see the reality of it. And trust me, it’s better than any picture-perfect image online can be. Nothing beats your own story.
Once you learn to have that faith, it’s like you’re floating. From there, you’re not so scared by the dips anymore. You trust it’ll all be OK, and if it won’t be OK, you know you’ll have the ability to understand what went wrong. You’ll either try again and do something to fix your work — hence, it still being OK — or learn and move on to the next, where it doesn’t end up being as okay as you’d like it to be, but where that lesson was worth learning anyway. I’ve never regretted a minute of bread-making. Each attempt makes you a better baker. You grow as you go.
3. Not all loaves can be saved.
But the ones that can be should be.
4. Don’t forget to enjoy your bread.
Taking the perfect Instagram picture is great. I definitely could’ve done this a bunch in San Francisco, where I laid eyes on one of the greatest loaves I’ve seen. I admit, I took a few. I think about that loaf almost daily. But, spend time with it. Enjoy it. Take in the beauty of your work. You’ve just baked sourdough. Congratulations. It’s a lifelong journey, and I hope you’ll join me on it.
Max Kurant is a junior double-majoring in English and an individualized major in social systems science.