Crust of chaos
On the alchemy of the simplest things. On controlling. And adapting. On presence. On sourdough lessons.
Right-sized amount of crunch
We joined a Waldorf school recently. Many families are doing “homesteading”. Which I had to google. While I can’t pretend we’re anywhere close to self-sufficiency, or even thinking about farming or foraging our land, or crafting our own clothes… I’ve realized, I’ve been unknowingly dipping some toes. Bread baking most weeks. You see, I’m not that crunchy, but I do love some crunch.
An everyday kind of alchemy that asks little and offers so much. Flour and water. A little free-floating fungi. A little patience. The beauty of these simple ingredients. There’s something deeply reassuring in knowing that with just a few accessible components, I can feed my people and myself. The sovereignty in that. The power in gluten.
And then there’s the genuine excitement of my kids looking forward to eating the fresh bread I’ve made. They’ve started scheming for us to start a bakery. I’d bake; they’d rake in all the money. We have yet to iron out who’s responsible for supplies and gas bills.
Bread baking feels like a safe haven, a cozy nook, a snug cuddle. It makes me feel consequential. Especially when things feel insurmountable or overwhelming, or when I casually realize that everything I thought I knew about America is up for a “realignment.” As the political pundits call it. Cue eye roll, but also… the terror.
Science, art, and the holy spirit
It all started about a year ago, in my usual late-bloomer way. Long after the sourdough trend, the explosion of bread oven sales, and the yeast and flour shortages of the pandemic-bound NYC. It’s almost like a point of pride for me, to either stay ahead of the curve or only embrace trends long after everyone else has moved on.
The thing about sourdough baking is that it’s so much more than what it looks. It’s a blend of science, art, and spirituality that scratches so many of my itches. It’s like a “friendly”. Maria vs. Maria. Where I practice controlling variables and letting go. Precision and entropy, side by side. Striving for perfect measurements but staying nimble, patient, and trusting the process. Following the recipe but improvising as needed. All the themes of my life kneaded together.
Starting with the starter. The alchemy of invisible organisms transforming flour and water into something indisputably alive. Bacteria and yeasts captured from the flour, the baker’s skin, baker’s kitchen and utensils, the water source. The starter grows, bubbles, smells, evolves. You feed it either daily (if it lives on the counter) or weekly (if it lives in the fridge). With every feed, you trust the invisible work of the wild, naturally occurring microbes. But you’re also tasked with nurturing that untamed, living thing. Figuring out why it’s starting to give off a weird smell, or why the hooch is suddenly dark grey. Feeding it just the right ratio of flour and water. Delegating the feeds only to someone trustworthy.
The starter’s ripeness makes or breaks the baking process. The overall flavor, expansion (or “oven spring” for those inducted), aroma, and texture all rely on the care you provide to the “mother”. At its peak ripeness—an unscientific “while” after a feeding—it’s full of thriving yeast. The mix is unique to the time and place. It won’t be exactly the same twice; forever shifting. Every loaf like a fingerprint. Completely unique. Every boulé with a spirit of its own. This one boulé, meant for me and my family, at this precise moment in the vastness of the universe and the history of bread baking. A cosmic quality that often goes unnoted in the morning shuffle of the kids’ lunch-prep.
A hot kitchen, a cold kitchen, an unusual draft, humidity, fewer bubbles, more bubbles, a jiggle today, clumpiness tomorrow. The variables are infinite, and so is the potential for unexpected effects. Working with what’s here, the hand you’ve been dealt. Anticipating how all these conditions will impact and shape the dough.
In mess we trust
Then there’s autolyse, which, in comparison to the starter dance, feels like pure magic. The first “rest” after combining water, starter, flour, and salt is a true leap of faith. You mix the ingredients into a shaggy mess that looks like that dog breed with dreadlock-like fur. The Komondor. What a great name.
And then you let it be. Let it rest. When you return 30 minutes later and give it a flip, the shaggy mess is no longer messy. It’s coalesced into a structured dough. The water absorbed the flour. The gluten did its thing. The ingredients alchemized before your eyes. Magic, like I said.
The mess needed rest. The mess needed time. The mess naturally evolved into non-mess. Or the mess required you to simply rest in it. It needed you to relax so it could fully develop. Best part? This step saved the future you time and energy, sparing you from kneading.
I’m not just talking about bread anymore, am I?
The autolyse, like life, has one requirement. Trust. Trust “it” will do its work. Trust that there’s an outcome that will make sense in the end. They say, “There’s calm before every storm.” I say, “There’s calm after every storm”. A new order emerges from chaos. That dismemberment you feel right before a major leap propels you forward, requires cool, calm, collectedness. Letting things be. Landing exactly where you were meant to land.
Ways to tell a story
Then comes bulk fermentation. The bread’s long rest and rise. This stage determines the perfectly risen loaf. The rise, the moisture, the stretchiness, the crust—all take cues from this phase. Over-proof it, and you’ll get massive air bubbles, making it impossible to enjoy bread my favorite way: with thick slabs of cold butter and salt. Under-proof it, and you’ll end up with a dense, chewy je n'ai sais quoi, with no air bubbles and a big meh of a flavor.
How much attention do I give to avoid ruining it? How much can I let things unfold naturally? How much control do I have, and how much must I adapt?
Shaping the loaf offers another lesson. Shape it, rest, shape again. After the mess, the rest, and the rise, it’s time to shape the narrative of what just happened. The story of transformation. What shape will you choose? I go for the boulé—simple, honest, rustic. But there’s the bâtard (oval), the Pullman (rectangle), the fancy fougasse (leaf-shaped), or the even-fancier couronne (a ring of smaller dough balls).
Finally, the fun: scoring. The part with pure creative expression. Leaf patterns, grids, spirals, initials. Scoring lets the bread expand in the oven while adding flair. The details make it “pop.” Some days, my bread has one deep cut. Other days, my kids request a bequeathed “M.” And some day, there’s more to express. A creative yearning, to mix shit up or to feel like I too can create beauty in the world. Bread is beauty. The smallest contribution to the service of beautifying the world. How little it takes.
And then that first, often still-warm slice. The butter ever so slightly melted, a sprinkle of salt, and that first bite. The simplest joy. The earthy, crusty smell filling the house. The tenderness I feel when my kids say it’s the best bread I’ve made yet. A reminder that even when I feel like I’ve lost the plot, I can still be grounded. With water, flour, patience.
Random collection of things
🥖 Two of my favorite, “easy” sourdough recipes for those wanting a bit of magic in their life. Here and here.
👍 This beautiful poem shared by
in her newsletter.Yes by William Stafford
It could happen any time, tornado,
earthquake, Armageddon. It could happen.
Or sunshine, love, salvation.
It could, you know. That’s why we wake
and look out – no guarantees
in this life.
But some bonuses, like morning,
like right now, like noon,
like evening.
🥷 An important distinction made by my dear friend
on impulse vs. intuition. Survival vs. deep knowing. Required reading for anyone who leads others.🪄 A magical story by
, because we all need more magic in our life. The Taurus in me just can’t embrace it, but my Scorpio rising gets goose bumps.🐎 A wonderful personal essay from my pal
. Big resonance with something I recognize in myself, at this stage in life. The telling and retelling of our stories, again and again, reinterpreting our childhoods, learning new lessons with every new nuance that emerges. As we grow older, and presumably a little wiser, interpretations change.
Lovely read Maria ❤️🍞
Such a lovely read. I'm a sourdough late-comer, like you. It's so good to have something to do right now that's reliably nourishing—as was reading this piece.
Thanks so much for the kind words on my piece. Made my day, to read that.