Man, 2020 was a weird one, right? Everyone was stuck at home, climbing the walls. I remember just staring at my kitchen counter, thinking, “What the hell am I gonna do with myself?” I was seeing all these videos online, people baking bread, specifically sourdough. And I thought, “You know what? I eat bread. I like bread. How hard can it be?” Famous last words, buddy, famous last words.
So, I decided to just jump into it. No fancy equipment, no real plan, just a bag of flour and some water. I went online, saw a quick clip of how to start a sourdough starter. Mix flour and water, leave it out. Sounded easy enough. I grabbed a jar, dumped some all-purpose flour in, added tap water, stirred it up. Left it on the counter, covered with a cloth. Day one, nothing. Day two, still nothing. Day three, maybe a tiny bubble? It smelled a bit like old socks, honestly. I kept feeding it, just flour and water, hoping for some magic. It was basically a goopy, sad science experiment for a solid week. I was about ready to toss the whole thing.
But then, something shifted. Around day eight, I started seeing proper bubbles. Not just one or two, but a whole bunch. And the smell changed, got a bit tangy, yeasty. It was alive! I felt like I’d birthed a new pet. Named it “Bubbles,” real creative, I know. Then came the actual bread making part. I watched another quick video, scribbled down some notes on a napkin. It was all about ratios, folding, proofing. Sounded complicated, but I figured I’d just follow along.
My first loaf? Oh man, it was a brick. Dense, flat, tasted kinda sour in a bad way. My wife took one bite and just shook her head. “Good effort, honey,” she said, with that pitying look. I was bummed, but also kinda stubborn. I wasn’t going to let a blob of dough beat me. I went back to the drawing board, or rather, back to more videos. I learned about weighing ingredients, not just eyeballing. I got myself a small kitchen scale. Learned about different flours, the importance of strong bread flour. Started paying attention to temperatures – the water, the room. It was like I was becoming a mad scientist, but for bread.
I started experimenting. Autolyse, bulk fermentation, stretch and folds, pre-shaping, final proof. All these terms that meant nothing to me a week before were suddenly part of my daily routine. My kitchen was a constant mess of flour dust and sticky dough. I failed, a lot. I had loaves that stuck to the banneton, loaves that didn’t rise at all, loaves that came out burnt on the outside and raw on the inside. It was a proper battle every weekend.
Then, one Saturday, after maybe my tenth attempt, it happened. I pulled a loaf out of the oven, and it had a crust. A proper, golden-brown, crackly crust. I tapped it, and it sounded hollow. I cut into it, and there were actual holes, a real crumb structure. It smelled incredible. I took a bite, and it was chewy, tangy, delicious. I actually did it. My wife tried it, and her eyes lit up. “This is actually good!” she exclaimed. That was a win, right there.
But here’s where the “romantic surprises” started kicking in. I made another loaf, then another. Friends started asking about it. I posted a picture on a social media story, and suddenly everyone was curious. My neighbor, who I barely ever spoke to, messaged me asking if I could make one for him. I was like, “Sure, why not?” I just gave him one of my successful loaves. He came over the next day with a bottle of wine as a thank you. That felt pretty good. Then more friends asked. I started baking two or three loaves every other day, just for fun, giving them away. It was a good feeling, sharing something I made with my own hands.
Then, one of my friends, jokingly, said, “You should sell these, man. They’re way better than anything at the store.” I laughed it off, but then other people started saying the same thing. One day, a colleague, after trying a slice I brought to a small outdoor gathering, pulled out his wallet and said, “How much for one of these? Seriously.” I was taken aback. I hadn’t even thought about it. But then I realized, I was spending money on flour, and time, a lot of time. So, I mumbled a price, something small, just to cover the cost. And he paid me!
That was the real surprise. This little hobby, born out of boredom in lockdown, was actually making me a tiny bit of money. It wasn’t much, like pennies, but it was something. More importantly, it was connecting me with people. I started a small local group chat, just a few neighbors and friends who wanted fresh bread. I’d bake on certain days, and they’d pick up from my porch. It became a whole thing. People were sharing ideas for different flours, talking about what they were making with the bread. It wasn’t just about the bread anymore; it was about this unexpected little community that formed around it.
Looking back at 2020, with all its craziness, that sourdough journey was truly one of the best “surprises.” It started as a way to pass the time, turned into a frustrating battle, then a rewarding skill, and finally, into this small, unexpected source of joy and connection. Who would’ve thought that flour, water, and a bit of patience could bring so much good into a really challenging year?
