Baking bread when life is sour(dough)
Crafting carbs as a metaphor for life + updates from a 3 week writing break and I am burnt toast
While in bed sick, I imagined myself as jar of sourdough discard sitting in the fridge.
For those of you who don’t know how baking sourdough bread works, the baker needs sourdough starter — a live, naturally fermenting mixture of flour and water. It starts as a lifeless lump in a jar so the baker must “feed” it with more flour and water, which eventually causes it to activate, get nice and bubbly, and rise.
(Side note: My friend once named her starter Richard because his nickname is Dick and, well, the body part with the same name… it also rises when it’s ready to be used. Ha!)
Once the sourdough starter is risen, the baker can use this live culture to make her sourdough bread.
To be clear, when I thought of my life as a metaphor for sourdough, I was not thinking of that active starter I just described to you. The one full of opportunities, perked up and ready for a lovely rise.
I am like the sourdough discard.
When a baker “feeds" her starter, she can dump a portion of it into another container to avoid overfilling the jar of active starter each time she feeds it. I imagined myself as the starter you dump into another jar and store in the cooler. I am not the main event. I’m discard, the b*tch on the side.
Currently, I feel like a cold pile of sludge. Strangely pungent. Dormant and useless until woken up.
However, not to be confused with trash, the sourdough discard is a fermented mixture that is usable but it’s not as active as a fully refreshed starter (a.k.a. Dick). When placed in the fridge, a baker can later make other recipes specifically for discard, which I’ll get to in a bit.
I am discard because I am limp, cold, left there to just sit. I haven’t been myself, with the belief I’m doing “nothing.” I didn’t want to write yet another depressing post for you this week. But I write with a blank slate at the beginning of each week and, well, this is what’s real for me right now.
I didn’t know if I’d show up to write but I’m doing it because I seek some sort of semblance of myself.
I am a shell of someone I used to be. Cognitively, I’m a mess. Brain farts and all. Physically, I’m weak. Mostly, I’m sick of my mental state, which is filled with destructive emotions.
When recovering from illness, I know rest is best and it’s what I need to do but I’ve been resting for weeks, damn it. I need to do something else.
I took a 3 week break from writing my newsletter and I had great expectations. I sought deeper connections with my family and myself. I aimed for a mind-body recharge. I wanted a flood of creativity through rest. None of that happened. A wise man once said, “expectations are planned disappointments.”
My plans turned into sickness. Again. I’m still in it. I’ve been unwell for so long. I wish I had a different story to share. It’s as if all the ailments I had separately before have all come together to stir sh*t up.
My decision to write after a long rest from it, is like pulling out the sourdough discard.
Did you know that the b*tch-on-the-side sourdough starter sitting dormant in the fridge can last for an indefinite amount of time?
It can be left and forgotten for months, and can form a layer of gray slimy film at the top. It can smell extra sour, a pretty funky aroma — yet, still, it can be used.
Right now, writing words and stringing sentences together is difficult. I’m a sour goo with a questionable surface but I’m forcing myself out of the cold to write.
The beauty of discard is that there’s an endless amount of goods you can make with it, like cookies, muffins, crackers, tortillas and pancakes.
When it comes to sourdough discard, if you haven’t forgotten about its existence in your fridge, the hardest part is finding the motivation to physically start. It’s like picking up a book and sticking with it after you haven’t read in a really long time, or starting a new workout regimen when you’ve been in a slog all year.
So, although this piece was difficult to write, I still showed up.
Baking bread as a metaphor for life.
Making sourdough bread can be daunting at first. New bakers are often nervous about messing it up. Most people do mess it up. The learning curve is steep.
After owning way too many sourdough bread books, and reading other folks’ methods online, it seems everyone has different steps and techniques. Baking is an art and a science.
After more than 5 years of baking bread, I’ve nailed my own method.
Some folks check hydration levels (I don’t), some have fancy tools like bread baskets and dough proofers (I just use kitchen tools I already own), and others call it levain (the French name for Dick sourdough starter but I am not that fancy).
Some bakers’ approach have a stronger hand in science, measuring temperature and hydration level percentages. However, I treat it more like an art. I almost never follow a recipe completely, which, I know, is a baker’s nightmare. Sometimes I skip steps I don’t deem necessary, like extra kneading or stretching and folding the dough.
My bread isn’t consistent, sometimes it’s ugly, or flat, or denser than expected. But one thing is constant: it is always devoured by my friends and family.
And that’s the beauty of baking sourdough bread. I make it my own.
When I was unwell these last weeks, I baked bread.
It was an act I could do that was familiar. It was messy but I knew what to expect. And in a time where I felt totally useless, I felt purpose in making something I knew would turn out delicious, with three simple ingredients — flour, water, and salt. That’s it. When I felt so disconnected, it’s as if the bread kept me connected, with myself, and with those who enjoyed it, my family.
A loved loaf takes time, constant care, and is hands on. But when a break is needed, which is often, you can stick your starter in the fridge and take it out when you’re ready to make your magic again. Isn’t this how life works?
Discard deliciousness
I’ll end with telling you what I made with the discard, the flaccid stuff left to be forgotten, only to be remembered again: oatmeal raisin cookies. They are sweet, slightly sour from the sourdough discard, and it’s a surprisingly welcome taste.
Thanks for reading. Writing this was healing.
You had me at the title and never let me go. I hope you continue to heal and to write. Sending good vibes your way.
I'm glad you showed pup! And I love the whole sourdough metaphor.