Rustic is a generous word

Three days of feeding a starter I was convinced I had already killed, and somehow a loaf came out of my oven this afternoon. Not a beautiful loaf. Not the kind of loaf you see on anybody’s feed with that perfect ear and dramatic scoring. But a loaf. A real, actual bread-shaped object that smells like something you’d want to eat. I counted that as a win before I even cut into it.

Rustic is a generous word

I don’t know why this particular Sunday felt like the right moment to try sourdough. The archive project has been heavy lately — I’ve been deep in coordination calls with the families Margaret connected me to, and somewhere between transcribing old interview notes and trying to make sense of someone else’s genealogy system, I just wanted to do something with my hands that had a clear ending. Heritage documentation does not have a clear ending. Bread does. Bread is done when the oven timer goes off, and that felt like medicine.

Jake got this one without telling me. Apparently I stare at my failures with deep seriousness. Accurate.

The kitchen was a disaster. Flour on the counter, flour on my shirt, flour in places I cannot explain. The dutch oven is still soaking. But there’s half a loaf left wrapped in a clean dish towel on the cutting board, and I sliced it while it was still warm and just stood there eating it plain, standing at the counter, and it was genuinely good. Not perfect. A little dense on one side. But I made it, and I will absolutely be insufferable about this for at least a week.