A few years ago, my son gave me a sourdough starter. It resided in my refrigerator on a lower shelf, toward the back. I lovingly patted it occasionally when I searched for the fermented pickles, but the poor dear was nearly forgotten. She didn’t even have a name. Then one month I mustered up enough nerve to bake several loaves, or should I say Frisbees. I didn’t have much luck and accidentally fed her too much flour. She died a silent, gooey death.
Feeling sorry for me, my son gifted me another well-seasoned and feisty starter. I was determined. I watched YouTube videos, I joined all the Facebook sourdough groups, and I optimistically purchased two beeswax bags in which to store my prize loaves.
Day One:
Feed Jack. (I chose to name my starter Jack after my dad. He and I liked to tear into a warm homemade loaf of bread, slather it with butter, and wash it down with a mug of beer . . . ahem, milk for me.) It took two feedings before Jack woke up and bubbled a little. He didn’t grow much, but he smelled rather tangy, like my dad’s pilsner, so I proceeded.
Day Two:
Stretch and fold. I’m blessed with a smidgen of the ABC Disorders known as OCD and ADHD. When the instructions say stretch and fold every 30 minutes, I set a timer. I count my stretches. After the last fold, I let it rest and was surprised at how quickly it rose. I had to leave for a few hours and was afraid the poor dear was going to overflow its bowl, so I threw out a question to my lifeline, Facebook Group Sourdough for Beginners, “Can I put it in the refrigerator until I return?” Ensuring my husband would be home to take my phone call, and making sure he knew where the refrigerator resided, I became an obsessed teenager checking my phone every few minutes for my answer. “Yes, chill the dough,” they responded.
Day Three:
Baking day. My recipe stated to place the cooking vessel, my Lodge cast iron, in the oven at 500 degrees for one hour. I thought this was a bit excessive, but my OCD kicked in, and I had to follow the instructions. At the end of one hour, I donned my long, insulated rubber coated oven gloves and took the pan out, placing it on another set of hot pads. The Williams-Sonoma label melted and stuck to the pan. After struggling with that, I placed my pretty little dough boule in the pan, covered it, and carefully placed it back in the 500-degree oven. I set the timer for 20 minutes.
When twenty minutes seemed like thirty, I checked the timer. Without budging, 41 seconds remained for the next 3 minutes. The clock showed 19 minutes in the past. The oven light wouldn’t go on. The oven wouldn’t turn off. It was stuck at 500 degrees.
Panic:
I searched for the instruction manual. There was no trouble shooting solution for “oven stuck at 500 degrees” so I scanned the pages for a phone number. Finally connecting with a service agent, he suggested I turn off the breaker. Great idea. I gave that task to my husband while I guarded the open oven door from the dog. Five-hundred-degree heat poured into the kitchen while our 105-degree heat wave outside knocked at the windows. Service was scheduled for the following week.
Now what. My bread had 20 more minutes to bake. Family was coming for dinner in two days, and I didn’t have use of the stovetop range or the oven. My brain tried to formulate a company-worthy dinner made in a crock pot and a microwave.
Because I’m impatient, I had husband switch the breaker back on that afternoon. Luckily the oven had reset and all appeared normal. Family dinner did not have to be soup and heat-‘n-serve rolls after all.
The Big Reveal:
I had no idea what I was going to find inside my half-baked sour dough bread, so I waited until the family came over for the big reveal. The outside was crusty. It had a pretty wing on the top where I scored it. I cut. It wasn’t perfect, but it was cooked throughout and tasted rather good. I think I’ll try again next week, but I’ll have to check with my Facebook groups if a lower temperature will work because it’s obvious my oven does not like 500 degrees.
The Final Cut