She does it every day. Feed the starter, work the dough, turn on the oven. We see a crusty, warm loaf of sourdough. She sees the hours and effort spent.
Katie is a baker and artist. She’s my sister. Katie, our brother, Coburn, and I meet every Tuesday to talk about stories and characters and why you have to give yourself permission to write an ugly first draft. One of these Tuesdays, after eating Katie’s incredible homemade sourdough, I saw the parallels between both arts.
Make the dough. / Get the idea.
You bring multiple ingredients together—simple ingredients: flour, water, salt, a starter—and you blend until there is a mixture that is workable.
Put the dough on the table. / Write an ugly first draft.
This is the part where you have to put yourself to work. Where you have to be okay with every lump and inconsistency. This is not a sourdough loaf. It is not going to taste good if you dig a spoon into that lump and lift it to your mouth. But it is where you have to start. You have to put the dough on the table, however tasteless it will be.
Knead it. / Revise and edit it.
When the dough’s all there, you have to knead it. The palms of your hands are heavy. They work to bring the dough through a process that tightens it, refines it. But as you press and push, the dough breaks apart. It’s sticky. So you add more flour. Now it’s hard. You add water. Over time, you learn the right mixture. You knead until it is right. It still doesn’t taste like bread.
Let it sit.
For three hours, you have to step away. You come back quickly to shape it a bit more and put it into a proofing basket. Then you cover it, hide it in the fridge, and go to sleep.
Score the dough. / Edit it again.
In the morning, you can heat the oven. The dough is an uncooked mound in a dutch oven. Now, you score it. You are shaping it again, but this time, you are shaping it with small indents that are final. Each press of the knife crafts something that is not only pleasing to see but integral: if you don’t score the dough, it will bulge. The dough won’t rise properly. So you cut thin lines along the top.
Then you can bake it. / Then you can call it finished.
By now, you can smell it in the house. The aroma is enticing.
When you’re ready to taste the sourdough, it has gone through the stages every loaf must go through. You have stuck with the process and worked every detail out. Now, when it is finished in the oven, you can enjoy it—but a loaf isn’t just for one person. So you invite others in—those who sourced the flour, those who helped you keep watch on the timer, those who waited with you while it was in the oven. And they enjoy it with you—this loaf that was once a lump of dough on the table.