Bad Bread

I'm not sure what exactly led me to create my own sourdough starter. It was on an ideal Spring day -- one of those first days in Spring that is noticeably warmer than the ones preceding it and clearly indicates Winter is now definitely behind us.

I opened the window above the sink in the kitchen and I saw dandelion, cottonwood, and various grass seedlings floating on the gentle breeze finding its way through the field behind my home.

I was immediately taken back to a memory of years earlier where I learned that sourdough was a product of the wild yeasts and airborne microorganisms that occurred everywhere. The combination of those invisible fauna near the San Francisco Bay were particularly unique, the legend goes, and contributed to the region's world famous sourdough bread.

All you needed to do, was combine some water and flour, and sit it near an open window. Give it a few days and when bubbles formed, a whole world of potential combinations and artistry would open up to you.

I gave it a try, and made my first home made loaf of sourdough about a week later. It came out of the oven hot and fresh. Once it had cooled to a touchable temperature, my kids devoured it within minutes.  I was a proud Dad.

Here's the thing ... after making hundreds of additional loaves ... if you put that first batch of my sourdough bake in comparison ... you'd be tempted to call it "bad." 

By even novice or intermediate standards, it was, by comparison, truly bad bread.  It lacked the brown crust and jagged ears that make great bread so attractive to the eye. When breaking into it, the crust would fold and tear rather than crackle and collapse. The interior, or "crumb", was dense and gummy.

But here's the thing. It was magnitudes better than anything you'd ever buy in the store. I would argue even against the quite impressive loaves made onsite by the bakery, but absolutely in magnitudes better than the industrial, commercial loaves bagged in plastic and stocked in droves on the shelves.

My first bread hadn't risen enough. It was dense. It lacked the airiness of any truly decent loaf. But it was warm and not only made it past the discriminating palettes of three sub-teens, but it was fresher than anything they had ever tasted -- it was right out of the oven.

The smell.  The taste. But also, I don't know, the personal love and curiosity and attention that went into it.  I had taken some flour from the pantry, some water from the tap, opened a window and let some time pass.  

While it did, I learned a little bit about hydration levels, the quality of flours, and the difference between starters, levain, and dough.  

Of course I got better. I learned to feel the dough better. To appreciate how air temperatures would affect the rise times. And how various flours could alter the taste.

But the most immediate and persistent insight came from that first batch: the worst homemade bread is better than the best stuff bagged in plastic at the supermarket. 

Today, I will have a fresh couple of loaves coming out of the oven as my kids come home from school.  And there's something even deeper in the act of creating this nutritious food that we, as humans, have been making for each other for thousands of years.  

It's not just an act of baking, or creating a food to enjoy.  It's an act of love.