Sourdough for real life

I think one of the things that makes people scared of sourdough is that everyone makes it sound like everything has to be perfect for it to work. The crumb has to be right. The ear has to be right. Making a starter seems complicated because there are all these ratios and rules. When really, you just have to start. You learn as you go, it may not always be perfect but I haven't had an inedible sourdough yet. I may have had to toast it, slightly overcooked it but it was still good.

For me it's a skill worth having. I mill my own wheat and use it for my loaf because I'm trying to keep my GI lower — whole grain, higher nutrition, less processed. I use filtered water, organic wheat, and that's about as complicated as my ingredient list gets. Flour, water, salt. Nothing else added.

I also just love it. I find it fascinating that these simple things actually make bread. And it brings me joy slicing into a fresh loaf.

I make a white loaf for Matt because mine is too dense for him, you have to chew it and apparently that's too hard. The two loaves behave completely differently and taste completely different, which still surprises me a little every time.

On baking day I pull the starter out of the fridge, let it come to room temperature, and feed it — 100 grams of flour, 100 grams of filtered water. Then I go outside. Do the washing, do my jobs, whatever needs doing. When I think it's close to peak I come back in and make up the dough. Then I go back out in the garden, come back, do a stretch and fold, go back out again and repeat the stretch and fold one more time.

The other night I had dinner plans and was going to shape the dough when I got home. Forgot. Went to bed. Woke up in the middle of the night, got up, shaped it in the dark, put it in the fridge, went back to sleep. Baked it in the morning.

It was probably the best white loaf I've ever made. I'd thought I'd over-proved it because it had been sitting out on the bench. Turns out, not a problem.

The bake is my favourite part. I heat the oven as high as it goes and put the cast iron baking dish in to heat up with it. Once everything's up to heat I pull the loaves from the fridge, score them on brown paper, and lower them into the hot dish with the lid on. I've learned to set a timer once the bread is in — I can get distracted outside and I've slightly overdone a few, not ruined, but close enough. Half an hour with the lid, fifteen minutes without.

When you open that oven door your glasses steam up and the smell hits you and it's just amazing — there's nothing like it. I pull them out onto the rack and I love how they look. Rustic, organic, nothing uniform about them. That's what I want. Not a square loaf that looks the same every time.

Once they're cool I put them on my timber chopping board and that first cut — the crunch of the crust opening up — and then butter, some tomatoes from the garden, and that's it.

I slice half the loaf and freeze it. Leave enough out for a few days. One bake, bread sorted for the week.

It's not perfect. It's never going to be perfect. But it's ours, we know what's in it, and it just fits into our life.

Just start. The worst that can happen is you have to toast it.

If you want to see how I actually make it, I filmed the whole process — watch here: Sourdough video