After making the Sourdough Starter That Ate New York, I scooped some out last night and started the dough for sourdough bread.
The recipe called for letting a cup of the sourdough starter, mixed with water and flour, ferment for at least an additional twelve hours. Then I had to let it rise - twice. The second rising took place with the loaves upside-down in a couple of bowls lined with flour-dusted dish towels.
At the end of the day, this is what I had.
I slid them off the baking sheet and onto a wooden cutting board to cool. Tom put his nose right up to them, inhaled deeply, and told me that he was jealous of my loaves.
I've never been much of a baker, aside from Mississippi Mud Cakes (put everything in a greased tin, mix it up, and bake it) and brownies from a box. I did have a brief stint when I was pregnant where I found I could make cheddar cheese scones pretty well. But yeasted bread? That was just beyond me.
The sourdough starter smelled so good, I wanted to eat it right out of the bowl. And the loaves are just so perfect: chewy on the inside, crunchy on the outside, with a perfect sourdough tang.
The baking was a good way to burn off some stress today. Colden is playing another round of hide-and-go-poop. I've been getting bad news all week, mostly involving friends with cancer and relatives of friends with cancer. I went for a ride after dinner to get another gallon of milk so that we don't run out before Friday and cranked up the radio so I could scream my head off and just get it OUT.
It's almost time for bed, but Colden is wide awake, after a four-hour nap he decided to take AFTER he got home from preschool. Glad that I got 10+ hours of sleep last night, because I get the feeling it's going to be another looooooooong night...