Sourdough & Slow Baking

There is a particular kind of quiet that settles over a kitchen when bread is proving — a hush that feels almost sacred, as though the house itself is holding its breath alongside the dough. I wrote this little book for anyone who has ever stood at a kitchen window on a grey morning, cupping a warm mug, and felt the pull of something slower and more deliberate than the world usually allows. Sourdough is not a trend, whatever the magazines may tell you. It is an ancient conversation between flour, water, wild air, and time — and once you learn its language, you will never quite stop listening. These pages are not a manual to be followed with military precision. They are, I hope, more like letters from a friend who has burned more loaves than she cares to admit, and learned something gentle and lasting from every one of them. Come in, put the kettle on, and let us begin.

Sourdough frightens people, and it needn't. It is the oldest, simplest bread there is — flour, water, time and a little patience. I have kept the same starter alive for over twenty years; I call her Bess, and she has raised more loaves than I could count. In this book I take you gently by the hand: how to begin your own starter, how to feed and love it, and how to turn it into bread that will make your whole house smell of Sunday. There is no rushing sourdough. That, my dear, is rather the point.

— Agnes