This is the real recipe. Not ingredients, but attention. Not steps, but understanding. Start simple. The complexity you want lives in the simplicity you master first.
You wait an hour. The hardest discipline. Then you cut into it and see: not perfection, but communication. A crumb that shows you what the dough needed, what it received, what you learned.
Morning: 230°C, steam, a razor cut. Twenty-five minutes covered, twenty-five uncovered, the final stretch with the door cracked open. Heat applied in stages. Each temperature a different conversation with the dough.
Pre-shape: edges to center, tension building. Rest: thirty minutes of relaxation. Final shape: a gentle rolling, a turning over, flour and basket. Each step a small lesson in knowing when to push and when to wait.
It rises at room temperature until doubled. Not because a timer says so, but because you can see the change. Volume, texture, the way it holds light differently. You're learning to observe, not just to execute.
You add salt, fold in water slowly. The dough absorbs each addition. You learn the rhythm: squeeze, fold, wait. Squeeze, fold, wait. The Rubaud method—a diving motion that mimics professional mixers. Your hands become tools of patience.
320g bread flour, 80g whole wheat. 280g water, 5g yeast, 8g salt. Numbers that become ratios, ratios that become understanding. You mix them and wait. Thirty minutes of nothing, which is actually everything—gluten forming itself without force.
So you start again, but this time you remove the variables: Simple flours, baker's yeast, a hydration level that forgives mistakes. Not because you're giving up, but because you're building foundation.
The loaf that emerged wasn't what you imagined. Not bad, exactly. Just... not right. The flavor too sharp, the structure too tight. What failed wasn't you. It was the gap between recipe and reality, between instruction and intuition.
You gathered everything the internet told you to: sourdough starter, stone-ground flour, a dream of artisan bread. Then your hands met the dough and the questions began. Is this too sticky? How much is "doubled"? What does "ready" feel like?
Taking the first step open.substack.com/pub/bakingjo... Your first loaf didn't turn out like the videos. Too dense, too sour, no holes. You followed the recipe but something got lost in translation. The answer is starting simpler. Baker's yeast before sourdough. Understanding before ambition.
Your first loaf didn't turn out like the videos. Too dense, too sour, no holes. You followed the recipe but something got lost in translation. The answer isn't trying harder—it's starting simpler. Baker's yeast before sourdough.
My first loaves taught me that recipes alone aren't enough. Understanding the process—how each stage builds on the last—changed everything. #Bread-making is a journey, not a checklist. Mostly, it's about waiting
