At the Starting Line: The Beauty of Sourdough

Put on your aprons and head to the starting line with the humble, hearty, and sometimes hilariously unpredictable world of sourdough. Now, I know what you’re thinking. Sourdough? Really? Haven’t we seen enough mason jars of bubbling starter and loaves scored like fine artwork to last us a lifetime? Probably – and to be honest, mine never turn out that artistic. But stick with me, because we’re not going to talk about sourdough like it’s the next big foodie trend. We’re going to talk about it like it’s an old friend who’s been sitting on the back porch swing waiting for us to come home and settle in for a visit.

Sourdough Starter Recipe

Transcript

Episode 166 - At the Starting Line: The Beauty of Sourdough

Welcome to the first episode of our June series, "Baking Bliss," here on Living a Simple Life with a Back Porch View. This month, we’re going to slow down, roll up our sleeves, and step into the heart of the home - the kitchen. And today, we’re putting on our aprons and heading to the starting line with the humble, hearty, and sometimes hilariously unpredictable world of sourdough.

Now, I know what you’re thinking. Sourdough? Really? Haven’t we seen enough mason jars of bubbling starter and loaves scored like fine artwork to last us a lifetime? Probably – and to be honest, mine never turn out that artistic. But stick with me, because we’re not going to talk about sourdough like it’s the next big foodie trend. We’re going to talk about it like it’s an old friend who’s been sitting on the back porch swing waiting for us to come home and settle in for a visit.

Sourdough is ancient. I mean really ancient—older than your grandma’s Tupperware collection and possibly older than some family recipes you’ve got stashed in a tin box. It’s been passed down through generations not because it’s trendy, but because it works. It’s simple, it’s strong, and if you treat it right, it’ll feed you for years.

Now, let’s talk about this starter. Ah, yes. Sourdough starter - the temperamental toddler of the baking world. You feed it, burp it, watch it grow, and just when you think you’ve got the hang of it, it throws a tantrum. Sometimes it puffs up and spills over the jar like it’s had too much sweet tea. Other times it sulks in the fridge and acts like it doesn’t want to be bothered.

But here’s the beauty of it: sourdough teaches us patience. In a world of drive-thrus and microwave meals, it begs us to slow down. It reminds us that good things - really good things - take time and patience. You can’t rush a sourdough loaf any more than you can rush a sunset or a rocking chair conversation with someone you love.

And the process? Well, it’s part recipe, part ritual, and part science experiment. There’s something deeply satisfying about mixing flour and water and knowing that, with a little time and care, those humble ingredients will bubble into life. It feels a bit like magic—but the kind of magic that smells like warm bread and feels like home.

Now, I won’t pretend sourdough is all warm fuzzies and perfect crusts. There’s a learning curve. You’ll forget to feed it. You’ll bake a loaf that could double as a doorstop. Your first pancake might taste like something that wandered in from the compost bin. But each mishap is part of the story. And around here, we don’t aim for perfection. We aim for progress, presence, and a whole lot of grace.

Let me tell you about my first starter. I named him Smitty. Smitty lived on my counter for a while, then in the fridge, and then—briefly—in a cooler when we lost power during a storm. Smitty was resilient, cranky, and—bless his wet, sticky little heart—smelled like a mix between moonshine and wet dog on occasion. But he taught me how to pay attention. How to notice the small changes. How to care for something simple, but alive.

There’s also something communal about sourdough. In the old days, folks would pass around bits of starter like a family heirloom. You didn’t just get a recipe—you got a story. You got Aunt Clara’s starter from 1952 or the one your neighbor smuggled home from a trip to San Francisco. It was a way to connect, to share nourishment and history and kinship.

And it’s still that way, if we let it be. Imagine starting your own sourdough and gifting a jar to a friend, along with a handwritten note and your favorite pancake recipe. That’s the kind of gift that says, "I see you. I care. Let’s slow down and bake something together."

And speaking of pancakes—sourdough is more than bread. It can be pancakes, waffles, crackers, biscuits, pizza dough, cinnamon rolls that will make you weep with joy, and even the occasional chocolate cake (at least, that’s what I’ve been seeing. I haven’t tried it yet. If you have, and are willing, please share your recipe!) Sourdough is versatile, dependable, and surprisingly forgiving—once you stop trying to boss it around. Because in real life, you aren’t the boss of a sourdough starter – it is.

You see, sourdough doesn’t like to be rushed or ignored. It wants your attention—but not in a needy way. It just wants you to show up. Kinda like most people in our lives. And in that way, sourdough becomes more than food. It becomes a practice. A reminder. A little living parable sitting on your counter, or in your fridge.

So where do you start? Well, you start where you are. Grab a jar, some flour, and water. Mix. Wait. Feed. Repeat. Pay attention. And as you work with your starter, get to know it. Give it a name. The one I have now is called Bob. It doesn’t have to be a guy’s name. It can be a girl. And the more you work with it, the more you’ll get a feel for a name.

Laugh when Bob gets exuberant and overflows. Take notes when Mabel is in a good mood and is working smoothly.  And when she cops an attitude and refuses to do anything? Well, welcome to the club. There’s always tomorrow. And another loaf. And even another starter, if Mabel just turns in her resignation.

If you’re a little nervous, that’s okay. This isn’t about impressing anyone. It’s about reconnecting—with your food, your time, your senses, your stories. It’s about discovering that something so simple can ground you, teach you, and even make you giggle when your dough ends up looking more like a swamp creature than a future loaf of bread.

As we kick off this Baking Bliss series, I want you to know—you don’t have to be an expert. You just have to be curious. Willing. And maybe a little stubborn. Sourdough will meet you there, flour-covered hands and all.

So pull up a rocker, pour yourself a glass of sweet tea, and let’s raise a toast (or a toast slice) to old skills, slow living, and the joy of baking something with your own two hands. Because at the end of the day, whether your loaf is lopsided or a museum quality work of art, you’ll have created something real. Something simple. Something good.

And around here, that’s more than enough.

Thanks for joining me on the back porch today. Next week, we’ll be talking about baking up some of your grandma’s biscuits. Let’s make her proud and your kitchen smell like heaven. Until then, keep it simple and savor the slow.

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Thanks again for stopping in. I will see you next week on Living a Simple Life with a Back Porch View. And while you are waiting for the next episode, grab that glass of refreshment, pull up a rocker, and sit back for a while. It’s time to relax and enjoy.