How to Bake Sourdough Bread and Alienate Everyone You Know

Are you stressed out? Strapped for time? About three to five minor inconveniences away from total burnout?

Now is the perfect time for you to start baking sourdough bread.

Maybe you’re short-staffed at work, you’re house-training a new puppy, or one of the kids has the stomach bug and your washing machine smells vaguely of cheese curds. It could be any combination of internal or external life stressors that has convinced you that you are now the kind of person who bakes from-scratch, gut-friendly, personality-transforming sourdough bread.

If this is you, let’s begin.

Step 1. Nurture your interest

Once that initial spark to become a bread-slinging Barbie hits, you want to give it some air—let it build into a full-blown burning desire. It is recommended you take approximately six to eight weeks to scroll Instagram, TikTok, and YouTube and really deep-dive into the world of sourdough. Pay special attention to any influencer sporting gingham and high ponytails: immediately subscribe if they have a Midwestern accent and a “Gather” sign hanging in the kitchen.

Now, scroll, scroll, scroll! Scroll in the morning, on the toilet, in the car line, in your bed late at night until your eyes feel like someone’s been aiming a blow-drier at them for hours. Follow every link and add every product mentioned to your “Sourdough” Amazon wish list. You should be dreaming of dough, joining Facebook groups, preaching to every stranger, friend, and family member about its glorious health benefits.

Only when you feel simultaneously insufficient as a human being and electrified with the energy of beginning are you ready to move on to the next step: outfitting.

Step 2. Outfitting

Pause. Before you can even consider perusing advanced tools like banneton baskets and humidity sensors, you must start with the most basic of basics. Your superhero cape. Your uniform. Your new identity.

The apron.

This is your chance to reinvent yourself. Are you a gingham girl? A floral feminist? A nautical nana? A doughy daddy? Maybe your ideal apron is a sleek, black utilitarian number. Or maybe your apron of choice is a blend of snark and humor—a good bread pun embroidered in red: “If you think my buns look good, you should see my stretch and folds.” Whatever heats your yeast.

Polyester will suffice. Cotton is ideal. Linen says I WAS BORN FOR THIS.

Once you’ve chosen your apron, pull up that Amazon wish list and add to cart! Add it all! It doesn’t matter if you already have glass bowls and mason jars and kitchen towels. Those are the supplies of the old you, of mediocrity—run-of-the-mill, plain-Jane housewares. If you want to bake like the masters, then you must shop like the masters! If @St. Louis_Sourdough_Suzzanna has a $500 robin’s egg blue enameled Dutch oven, then by God, so do you! This is your rebirth. This is an investment.

Step 3. Limbo

As you wait for your thirty-four shipments to arrive, it is imperative that you do not let your zeal deflate like an overproofed sourdough loaf. If any modicum of doubt or regret creeps in, return to Step 1 and scroll, baby scroll!

(If you have time during this waiting period for an entire kitchen remodel complete with a white subway tile backsplash and brushed gold hardware, it is encouraged [though not required] to achieve successful sourdough. Follow this link for kitchen renovation inspiration →)

Step 4. Unboxing day

It’s Christmas morning! Or so it seems as thick-calved delivery men bound up your porch steps and erect a cardboard pyramid with all your precious packages. Emerge from your house like the razor-knife-wielding cave troll you’ve become and drag them inside. Make a pile of your treasures on the kitchen table and organize them however you feel led. Starter supplies here. Glassware over there. Scale and thermometer here.

Snap a photo. #sourdoughhaul

Eee!

Take a deep breath. You can almost smell that yeasty goodness wafting through your kitchen. Hear the crackling of a perfect crust. Taste the grass-fed butter spread over its porous crumb. Feel the course fur of milk goats and the smooth feathers of your hens—okay, slow down. Focus on the bread, you overachieving, crunchy dreamer you.

Step 5. Halftime

Whew, that last step was a lot! Outfitting and organizing can be exhausting, and baking sourdough is best done with a fresh brain. You accomplished so much already; you deserve a break.

Relocate your supplies to an unused surface of your home. Leave them there overnight. Plan to begin your sourdough starter the next day, then delay it when [insert excuse] happens and today just isn’t the best day for it. Repeat this step as many times as necessary or until the Amazon return window closes and you have no choice but to eat the money or actually make bread.

If, at this stage, your spouse has inquired multiple times: a) if you’ve made any bread, b) when will you make the bread, or c) will you ever make the bread, do not lose heart. You are not alone; they simply don’t understand.

Follow this link to find a sourdough emotional support group near you →

(This is often the step where sourdough bakers are tempted to abandon the task altogether and jump ship to another hobby. If this is you, please return to Step 1, refresh, and meet back at step 6.)

Step 6. Recommitting

Welcome back! There’s that borderline-obsessive trend-crazed glow you thought you lost. Your excitement is palpable. You’re ready to begin your starter! Congratulations!

For this step, you’ll want to whip out that little packet of starter culture and carefully read the instructions. Read them again. Now watch this attached YouTube link approximately twelve times before you feel confident enough to combine real ingredients à

You got this. Measure, mix, cover, breathe. See, that wasn’t so bad now, was it?

Shove over Martha Stewart; there’s a new domestic goddess in town.

Step 7. The christening

Now, here is one of the most crucial steps of the breadmaking process: naming your sourdough starter.

This will be no peanut butter-smothered Sunbeam wanna-be bread; this is sourdough. This is sacred, living bread. This starter is not just another ingredient; this is your child now. And if you care for him properly, you’ll be scraping out his yeasty discard for generations to come. Your grandchildren will brag to their friends about their 100-year-old sourdough starter, gloriously shaming the baking imposters of the future.

He will need a name, but not just any name. Something regal, immortal: Romulus. Methuselah. Orion.

None of this cheesy “Dough-lene” or “Glutinous Maximus.” You are naming your legacy. Take it seriously.

Step 8. Activation

Forgot what life was like with a newborn baby? It’s all coming back now, isn’t it? You’re feeling a little tied down, aren’t you? Thought you’d just slip away for a short weekend getaway—a little R&R where you don’t have to worry about taking care of anyone but yourself. Well, SORRY, but your sourdough starter is not active yet!

“No one told me it would be this hard!” you say. Well, slow-fermenting, prebiotic, gut-friendly bread doesn’t just happen, now does it? Get back in the kitchen and feed your dough child. He’s a growing boy and needs flour and water twice a day.

It’s a hard season. Sleep when the starter sleeps.

Now, feed.

(If at any point he begins to smell like your grandma’s bathtub gin, he hasn’t died! Just pour some off and trust the process. Follow this link to read “12 Reasons You Might Be Tempted to Throw Away Your Starter” →)

Step 9. Becoming bread

Look how much he’s grown! After ten days of attentive nurturing, your dough baby has matured from murky goo creature to a beautiful stretchy bubble boy. If your dough child is doubling in size within a few hours of his feeding, he’s ready!

Take a whiff, really breathe it in through the nose. Smell that? That light, bready tang? That smells like you know how to pressure-can your home-grown organic produce. Like you’ve knitted a Christmas sweater for your entire family from the wool of your own Merino sheep. That’s the smell of a paid-off modern-rustic dream farmhouse. That’s the smell of success.

Your time has come! All the months of dreaming, the hours of research and shopping, the hundreds of dollars you’ve (appropriately) invested in this life-changing venture is about to bear fruit…or rather, bread.

Wipe those counters and crack those knuckles because it’s dough time.

With your carefully measured flour, salt, starter, and water (spring or filtered only, of course), it’s time to form the dough. Shape it into a ball and start on those stretch and folds to strengthen the gluten. Really put your abs into it—but not too much. And not too little either.

For visual instructions, follow this link for a step-by-step video on how to stretch and fold like a bread boss →

Once you’ve completed your first round of stretch and folds, cover your sweet sleeping yeast child and let him rest in a warm, quiet place.

Now don’t go anywhere. Did you think you were done? Oh no, you might as well call your friends and cancel your plans, because you’ll need to go back and do that part again every thirty minutes…like four more times. Maybe more.

Then, he’ll need to rest.

As he takes his long, pre-baking nap, you’ll have a few hours to yourself to ready the kitchen for the final step. Preheat the oven. Wipe the floury counters. Line your Dutch oven with parchment paper.

Oo, what’s this? Is your dough boy risen and smooth? Looking all smug and bubbly? IT’S TIME. Unwrap your lame from its original packaging; you’ll need to score the top of your dough—the all-important slice to vent steam as he bakes. A ceremonial circumcision, if you will.

No need to get fancy. A simple cut on each side will suffice. Just because @sourdoughizmypassion1975 scored Van Gogh’s “Starry Night” into the crust of her sourdough doesn’t mean you have to…yet.

Your time will come.

The kitchen is toasty, and your dough looks so cozy, all snuggled in his enameled bed. Slide him gently into the oven and sing him a lullaby. Close the door.

Now, he bakes.

Step 10. The reveal

As your family lingers at the edges of the kitchen, afraid to approach but hungry for the fresh, homemade bread you’ve spent all day working on to the neglect of feeding them a real meal, open the oven door and behold your creation.

Sheath your hands in your crisp new silicon-coated oven mitts and retrieve your child from the oven. He is no longer a dough boy; he is a full-grown loaf now.

His crust should be a beautiful golden brown with powdery flour coating his belly. Lay him down gently to cool. Fend off your feral offspring for at least an hour. Then, only then, when he is acclimated to the temperature of the room, will you slice.

Wield the beautiful hand-hammered serrated bread knife you ordered from Scandinavian forgers on Etsy and slice. Slice! SLICE!

Is he marvelous? Is he lacy and porous—a cave of glutinous caverns? Does he smell like Autumn in a hidden forest cottage? Will he crackle with that first, sacred bite?

Your glorious, beloved dough child looks like…

A tortilla…

Whatever you do, do not cry. He’s not underbaked, he’s just…rustic.

It is important to point out that this is your very first sourdough loaf. Do not be too hard on yourself. So, maybe he is lacking a bit of that brawn you were hoping for. Maybe he’s a little bit of a runt. That doesn’t mean you’ve failed.

Well, technically, yes, you’ve failed to make an artisanal loaf of crunchy, spongy, Instagram-worthy sourdough bread, but it’s still edible! Get out the butter and jam and slather away. Jam covers a multitude of imperfections! Feed it to your spouse! Feed it to the kids. Feed some to the dog. This was simply a practice round! Now you know better how to make sourdough for the next round.

(If you’re feeling frustrated, check out this article “10 Reasons Your Bread Was Flop” →)

You’re probably ready to throw in the 100% Egyptian Cotton towel and pout on the sofa with a pint of Chunky Monkey ice cream, but that won’t get you anywhere. Don’t give up yet!

The next step is simple:

Return to Step 1.