With a sourdough starter, you have to keep it in a glass jar on your counter, feeding it flour and water as the mixture bubbles and froths. It doesn’t follow the same set timeline of active dry yeast, so you learn the timing of bread making. When the bubbles start to form more quickly because of the heat. When the sourish smell of the starter is stronger after feeding it. When the dough resists and yields under your hands. You have to slow down and pay attention to the little things.
When you first successfully produce a bread with a golden-brown crust and a moist, shiny interior, it feels quietly triumphant. You didn’t just make bread: you took time, patience, and the simplest ingredients, and made something special. A lot of people talk about getting a little choked up when they cut into their first perfectly baked sourdough loaf — the crunch of the crust, the rush of warm air, the comforting yet somehow slightly different smell that spreads throughout the house. Little rituals like these can be comforting: you develop a soothing daily routine when feeding your starter, a meditative moment before the day gets going when you shape your bread.
The reason people don’t stop making sourdough after the starter phase is because there is more connection to be had. Every new loaf is informed by the previous loaf. A starter tastes more nuanced, more like itself, as it ages. You become more sensitive to the differences between two different millers’ flours, to how the warmer temperature in the house speeds up the fermentation, to how an overnight cold proof yields a more flavorful bread. You don’t just follow a recipe, you have a conversation with the bread. And that’s the real addiction.
In addition to creating a sense of continuity, sourdough is a time-traveling bread. It’s been around since before commercial yeast, but each time someone starts a new batch, there is an innovative element. If I take a warm loaf to my neighbors, or wrap one up to give to a friend having a terrible week, or simply slice a big piece and serve it with wonderful butter, it feels like an act of kindness. In a society that values quickness and immediate gratification, sourdough bakers are reminded that patience has its rewards.
So the jar remains on the counter. The starter keeps its quiet, patient existence going. Every couple days, the hands come back to stir, to feed, to fold. It’s not flashy. It’s not noisy. But it’s steady, trustworthy, and quietly reassuring — a tiny breathing vow that with attention and patience, something lovely will rise.