Seattle 101, or Sourdough

My bread takes three days to make. It starts with yeast, which must culture overnight, in the oven with the light on to keep it warm. In the morning, the kitchen smells like beer. I pour the leftover yeast back into my cloth-covered starter jar, which lives in the fridge. Then, I mix the dough. It's as simple as bread gets: yeast, water, flour. Sometimes, I add herbs or a little olive oil. Then, after ten or fifteen minutes of vigorous kneading, I rest. The dough needs a chance to rest a little, before I add salt, which will slow down the rising. After the rest, I knead a palmful of salt into the dough. When I'm done, it feels silky. I take a palmful of olive oil and rub it all over, so it doesn't develop a tough skin while it rises. Back into the oven with the light on. Four hours.

Next step is shaping, which takes two seconds - stretching the dough, giving the gluten in the flour a chance to arrange itself in long, texture-happy rows. Then I swaddle it in a clean cloth - Tamar's homemade napkins work best - put it in a colander, and stick it in the fridge overnight. This time, I want it to form a tough skin - it helps the crust.

Baking this bread (the next morning) requires more attention than challah - the glaze, a thin mix of water, milk and salt, I keep in a spray bottle in the fridge. The loaf has to be basted every ten minutes or so, to get that rough, shiny crust. Then half an hour to sit and cool once it comes out of the oven.

The five of us who live in the house can finish a loaf of my bread within hours. Somehow, it never feels like a wasted effort. Ilana praises each of my efforts, declaring as she chews, "It's coming along nicely, very nicely." I root around for cream cheese, pesto, any spread. Lately, as the yeast has aged, it's gotten beautifully sour, and I hardly put anything on it. It's something I never thought I would make, never imagined myself doing. I've always been a compulsory baker - challah only, nothing beyond what's required. But this sourdough - it brings a kind of quiet joy to the house, to the kitchen, in the smell of beer and toasted flour, knowing that wonderful bite is only a few days away.