Today, on the first day of feeling somewhat like myself after five days of gastrointestinal misery, I made a fresh loaf of sourdough.
Turns out I wasn’t quite back to normal—because I forgot the salt. And the folds. Oh, and scoring the top before putting the loaf in the oven. In true sourdough fashion, it found its own way to release steam—right along the bottom edge. It also tasted, unsurprisingly, like plain flour.
One of the best things about approaching homemaking as a practice rather than an identity or an ideal is that mistakes don’t feel like failures—they feel like learning experiences. Cliché, I know, but with that mindset, the stress of baking melts away (even if the bread turns out a little bland).
Lessons learned? Keep a salt cellar on the counter where I can see it, and invest in a sharper knife to keep on the magnetic strip—so I’m not digging around for that special razor blade a blogger convinced me I had to buy.
I’ve already mixed up another levain for tomorrow’s loaf and popped it in the fridge. This one will hopefully turn out better, but the first attempt won’t go to waste. I’m thinking bread pudding—maybe baked in muffin tins for single-serve desserts I can freeze for later.