It started with the fridge light blinking. That low, flickering gasp it makes when you’ve ignored it too long.
I hadn’t planned on bread.
But the starter looked alive. Bubbling. Demanding.
And the house was too quiet to argue.
I reached for the bag of flour with the corner torn open—still in the same stained canvas tote from that overpriced farm stand Mae rolled her eyes at. Salt. Water. The fed jar. Her Highness’s sourdough recipe was sitting half-crumpled behind the coffee pot, right where I left it last time I tried to feel steady.
I should’ve been working. Or folding something. Or eating toast like a normal person.
But no.
I started folding dough instead.
What Martha’s Version Looks Like
Her Highness plays it by the sacred numbers:
Levain overnight, autolyze in the morning, stretch every half hour like a damned yoga class. 750 grams of flour. 575 grams of water. 17 grams of salt, precisely. No poetic measurements here.
She calls for two bannetons, tightly shaped rounds, chilled in bowls with towel-lined grace. She tells you to use a lame to score it—gently, purposefully. To wait. To rest. To preheat the Dutch oven like it’s a ritual.
It’s slow. Meditative, if you’re someone else.
I wasn’t.
What I Did Differently
I used the dented Dutch oven. The one from the night I left him.
Still has the scorch mark near the handle. I never scrubbed it off.
And I didn’t wait the full 12 hours on the levain.
Maybe 9. I was impatient, or maybe just anxious.
I skipped the bannetons too. Just bowls. One had cartoon reindeer on it.
It made the seam press weird. But I liked the defiance.
And I forgot to flour the towel. So… that happened.
The Way It Happened in My Kitchen
The first fold, I did while listening to a voicemail I didn’t want to hear.
The second, I forgot.
Third one, I used Mae’s old school spatula—still has paint on the handle from that one art project. The one with the feathers and the glue and the argument.
I kept folding. Kept turning. The dough was sticky, elastic, warm like a body.
It felt alive.
I wasn’t ready for that.
I remembered the last time I made this, the dough clung to my fingers and I cried. No real reason. Just… one of those days when the silence turns up the volume.
Shaped it on a cutting board with flour everywhere.
Burnt the first towel in the oven preheat panic. Whole kitchen smelled like Christmas before the divorce. That’s what vanilla does to me.
Slashed the top with a knife that wasn’t sharp enough.
Still opened like a wound.
A Few Things I Learned
The crust will talk to you—if you listen after it’s out. Cracks as it cools.
Like it’s settling its own regrets.
Also:
You can burn your thumb on the Dutch oven lid twice and still not drop the loaf.
Small victories.
What I Did With the Extras
We ate one loaf standing at the counter. Mae said it tasted like “bread bread,” whatever that means.
I wrapped the second one in the towel with the Maine-shaped burn mark and left it on the neighbor’s porch.
She never said anything.
Would I Make It Again?
Yes.
When I need to feel something heavy rise.
That’s As Much As I Remembe
The fridge light blinked back on eventually.
I scraped the last of the flour into the compost bin with that old plastic measuring spoon—the melted one.
Still use it.
Still fits my hand.
If you’re after something less precise but more forgiving, I did a soft cheese loaf last spring that practically tore itself into pieces—and still worked.
FAQs
Yeah, but wrap it tight. otherwise it gets that sad freezer crust. better to slice it first if you’re the toast type.
Join the club. i used a cartoon bowl with a floured towel and it didn’t complain.
if you’ve got two dutch ovens and no distractions, sure. i didn’t. felt like juggling fire.
Could be too long with the lid off. or not enough steam. or the bread just had a rough day. it happens.
Check out More Recipes:
Martha Stewart Sourdough Bread
Description
Feels like steam and silence and something almost healing.
Ingredients
Instructions
- Build the levain: stirred the starter, flour, and water in a chipped bowl that used to hold halloween candy. covered it with a towel that already smelled like dough. left it overnight on the counter. no fancy ritual. just trust.
- Mix the dough: next morning, poured in water. all of it. stirred with my hand because i couldn’t find the scraper. added the rest of the flour. it clung like it meant it. covered again and wandered off.
- Add the salt: mixed salt into the last bit of water. poured it over the dough. squished it in like kneading a memory. it didn’t want to cooperate. neither did i.
- Fold the dough: damp hands. pulled the edge, folded it over. turned the bowl. again. again. again. six times. rested it. did it again. the dough got stretchier. i got tired. kept going.
- Shape the loaves: dumped the dough onto the counter like a slow exhale. cut it in half. let it sit while i stared out the window. shaped each into something like a round. floured bowls, dropped them in. they looked unsure. so was i.
- Chill the dough: covered them with damp towels. into the fridge. ignored them for most of the day. opened the door once just to check if they’d risen like they were supposed to. they had. barely.
- Heat the oven: put the dented Dutch oven in. turned the dial to 500°F. waited until the air felt sharp. burnt a towel grabbing the lid. swore. moved on.
- Bake the bread: dropped one loaf into the hot pot—seam down, like Martha says. scored it with a sad little knife. tossed in ice cubes for steam. lid on. twenty minutes. lowered the heat. ten more. took the lid off. crust bloomed like it was proud of me.
- Cool and repeat: pulled it out. tapped the bottom. hollow and hot. left it on the rack to cool, though we didn’t wait. second loaf followed. same song, second verse.