Last week my Aunt Margaret gave me some sourdough starter. I faithfully followed directions about feeding the starter and storing it and today made two loaves of sourdough bread. Though I’ve made regular yeast breads many times, I’ve never made this kind before and it definitely has a mysterious allure to it. Mostly because of some novels I’ve read recently where the bakers in them talk about tending their starters and how they are literally hundreds of years old.
My dough smelled delightfully sourdough while it was rising. The kids and I were having a dreadful time of annoying each other and Wii playing had been abruptly halted and their was some forced room cleaning going on, so we all couldn’t wait for the bread to come out of the oven. Because if fresh baked bread with butter can’t soothe a person, I don’t know what can. And indeed, the bread did soothe.
Nicely golden crusty loaves came out of the oven and we cut thick slices and dug in.
The verdict? Totally delicious. I’m thinking of making some every week. Because why not, really? The bread was not nearly as sour as I thought it might be (the description with the recipe said that it would not be), so I may try the other recipe that yields a very sour bread (rising for something like 10 hours.)
Thank you, Aunt Marg! Love, Sarah