The Wild Crumb

So you wanna make sourdough?
Welcome to the hobby where you voluntarily cultivate a bubbling jar of microbes and rearrange your entire schedule around its snacks.

Buckle up. Things are about to get flour-dusty and spiritually confusing.

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Step 1: Wake Up Your Yeast Gremlin

Open your fridge and look at your neglected starter like it’s a houseplant you swore you wouldn’t kill.

Feed it flour and water.

Whisper encouragement. Threaten it. Whatever works.
You’re trying to convince a jar of fermented goo to rise like it’s auditioning for a yeast Broadway show.

> When it doubles, bubbles, and smells like a tangy dream?
It’s ALIVE.

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Step 2: Mix Stuff Until It Resembles Hope

In a bowl, combine:

Water (350g)

Flour (500g)

Mix until you get a dough that looks like wet Play-Doh and questionable life choices.

If it looks wrong?
…It always looks wrong right now. Carry on.

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Step 3: Autolyse (Fancy Word for “Break Time”)

Cover bowl. Walk away for 30 minutes.

Go live your life. Scroll. Stare at a wall. Consider starting a homestead.
(Don’t. Chickens are a trap.)

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Step 4: Mix in the good stuff.

Add your starter (100g) and salt (10g) until it’s well combined.

You’re going to get messy!

Let it rest another 30 minutes (BULK FERMENTING STARTS NOW)

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Step 5: Stretch & Fold Time.

Every 30 minutes, return to your dough swamp for a total of 4 rounds.

Grab a corner. Stretch it up.
Fold it over like tucking in a toddler mid-tantrum.

Repeat until it feels smooth and elastic, like a polite cloud instead of swamp goo.

If you forget a fold?
Congratulations, you’re normal. Keep going.

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Step 6: Let It Rise

Leave dough alone until it’s puffy, jiggly, and looks like it would gossip if allowed in public.

Could be 4 hours. Could be 8.
Sourdough lives outside time like a medieval wizard.

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Step 7: Shape It (Gently But Threateningly)

Dump it on the counter. Pretend you’re confident.
Fold edges under until it forms a cute flour-covered orb.

Tell it you believe in it.
Tell it you’ll be deeply betrayed if it doesn’t rise.

Place in a floured bowl. Refrigerate overnight.

The fridge is where the flavor happens.
Also where you forget it until noon tomorrow. It’s fine.

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Step 8: Bake Like a Drama Queen

Heat oven and Dutch oven to 475°F (245°C).

Flip dough onto parchment. Score with a razor like bread-surgery.

If it sticks to the counter and you panic-scoop it?
Congratulations, you’re doing real sourdough.

Bake:

20 min covered (steam = crust magic)

20–25 min uncovered (until it looks like artisanal witch bread)

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Step 9: LET IT REST

Do. Not. Slice.
Bread screams if cut too early and so will you.

Wait AT LEAST one hour while you contemplate your life and snack.

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Step 10: Admire Your Work

Slice it. Smell it. Flex on your friends.

You’re now someone who casually yeast-wrangles for fun.

Bread sorcery unlocked.
Go forth and carbo-hydrate.

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Final Wisdom

If it’s ugly? Rustic.

If it’s flat? Call it “focaccia” and move on.

If you can’t eat it, try again.