I took up sourdough making recently, with one of my good friend’s guidance. I’ve always loved baking pastries but I’ve never made bread. It just sounded so daunting- all the waiting and kneading that it comes with.
When my friend started chronicling her sourdough journey— my interest peaked. I love sourdough, a frequent breakfast would be mashed avocado on top of sourdough, sprinkled with Trader Joe’s Everything But the Bagel seasoning and a ton of red pepper flakes. It’s just so good, and also not the same on other bread. While I went off on a tangent about my favorite breakfast, sourdough making had been an epiphany, and quite possibly the only other activity (aside from writing) that has been healing me lately.
If it all sounds dramatic, picture this: An early quiet morning, you see that your starter grew double from last night’s feeding. It’s lively and active, aroma reminiscent of a baked sourdough loaf, texture that is web-like in all the right places, bubbles on top and on the side. It’s progress you can actually see. You now feed it, stirring the starter and knowing that something good will come out of it. It’s a positive experience and you just love the therapy it provides.
I am not sure if most people feel this way about bread-making, but it could be truly any activity that brings you peace and joy. I am feeling melancholic lately, the first few weeks of the year turned out to be a contrary from what I thought it would be. Sometimes you just need that something to spark inspiration, or at the very least, heal you from daily stressors.
I am on my way to change things around though—the motivation is sparse but like feeding a starter, I’m learning to be patient with life’s process and progress. Until then, I will be baking bread.