Sourdough bread intrigues me. I grew up watching my mom make yeasted bread, so that is nothing new. But Sourdough...
Something about it is so... artistic. Romantic. Rustic. Like bits of the past cling to every crumb, making it a feast for the soul as well as the belly.
The process in itself is therapeutic. The gentle kneading and shaping. The long resting periods. And finally, the long, slow rise before the oven.
Then comes the baking. The heat, binding the grains into soft stability. Creating the crusty goodness so prized.
And then! It comes out of the oven. Hot. Crusty. Tantalizing. Wafting it's warm, homey scent. It's like a supper call, the way it brings the people to the kitchen. Haunting around the counter, waiting for a taste. But it must cool a little first.
And at last, the cutting. Slicing off wedges of warm, savory goodness. Earthy grain, with just a tinge of sour. Slathered with creamy butter, and topped with jelly from summer fruit.
And soon it is gone. Disappearing into hungry little mouths, to nourish growing little bodies. And the process begins again.
