For about a year, I have been using the same recipe to make sourdough loaves. It’s from King Arthur, and like a lot of sourdough recipes, the biggest component is time, requiring an eight-hour rise after the initial three-hour fold/stretch period. But it is simple, consisting of only five ingredients, and I make it about twice a week, sometimes more, depending on whether I’m making extra loaves for family or friends.
My bread-making routine follows a basic pattern: retrieve my plastic baking bucket and the thick red King Arthur bread book. Like all beloved recipes, the book opens naturally to the right page. I consult it for each measurement, then mix. I replace the book in its spot, and wait an hour for the next step in the process.
At 6:45 this morning, I headed into the kitchen, made coffee and put the kettle on for hot lemon water (thanks to Holly Whitaker, I am now addicted). Not yet caffeinated, I got my plastic baking bucket from its spot but forgot the recipe book.
Taking two steps toward it, I tried an experiment. Maybe I can do it from memory. Maybe if I don’t overthink it, or assume I don’t remember, maybe I can compile the ingredients without consulting the book. The worst thing? I’d screw it up and have to start over.
227 grams of sourdough, 397 g of water, 600 g of flour, 18 g of salt, and 2 tsp of diastatic malt powder. I mixed and the texture was perfect. I knew I had the correct amounts of each ingredient.
Are you dreading a metaphor? You should be, because one is coming!
A new doubt has crept into my writing practice lately. A sinister voice that says, “Why do you think you know how to write a story? Maybe all of your characters are flat potato pies without spice, maybe you suck at creating tension or a climax. You don’t have an MFA after all. Everyone else is better than you.”
My hands know how to make sourdough. They know the correct texture the dough should be at each stage. My brain knows each of the measurements and the best order in which to add them. My eyes know before I place the dough in the oven what it will look like when it comes out an hour later.
Isn’t writing the same, at least in a small way? After three years and a hundred stories (at least), after reading books about writing and taking courses and making writing friends, after winning an award and publishing my work, my hands, my brain, my eyes must know something. And if the story isn’t working, what’s the worst thing? I scrap it and start again.
Thanks to my inspiring morning with my bread, today, I will open a fresh Word document and let my fingers type. I know these ingredients. I know what it looks like when it comes out of the oven. All that is missing is me, trusting myself.