The Loaf That Taught Me Patience

I still remember the first time I attempted to bake a loaf of bread from scratch. Not the kind that comes from a box mix or a bread machine, but the real deal.  It was a rustic loaf — the kind that takes time, patience, and just the right touch.

I had been inspired by the sourdough trend sweeping the internet, with bakers showing off golden, crusty loaves that looked straight out of a European bakery.

Peter Reinhart’s crash course in bread baking article was one of many that motivated me to break out the yeast and turn on the oven.

The idea of making my own bread — something people had been doing for thousands of years — felt both romantic and grounding. How hard could it be, right?

The Sourdough Saga Begins

Step one: the starter.

I carefully mixed flour and water in a jar, feeling an odd sense of responsibility, as if I were nurturing a tiny, bubbling pet.

Every day, I fed it, watched it rise and fall, and — like a helicopter parent –worried over whether it was “doing the right thing.”

Some days, it smelled wonderfully tangy, a sign of good fermentation. Other days, it smelled like gym socks, which was…less promising.

By day seven, I convinced myself it was ready. I mixed my starter with flour, water, and salt, forming a sticky dough that clung to my fingers like a stubborn child. The recipe warned it would be “wet,” but this was ridiculous.

I pushed forward anyway, folding and stretching it as best I could, pretending I knew what I was doing.

And then, I waited.

The Longest Rise of My Life

The dough was supposed to double in size over the next few hours. But hours passed. And then more hours. I checked on it obsessively, whispering encouragement like it could hear me. But instead of growing into a pillowy cloud, it sat there, stubborn and unchanging, like a lump of wet cement.

Had I killed it? Was my starter too weak? Was my kitchen too cold? (Should I have set the dough next to my sleeping cat for warmth?)

By midnight, I admitted defeat. I shoved the dough into the fridge, hoping that by morning, some kind of miracle would occur.

A Lesson in Letting Go

The next day, I pulled the dough from the fridge, expecting disaster. But to my surprise, it had puffed up — slowly, overnight, on its own time. It wasn’t dramatic or rushed, just…steady.

I shaped it, let it proof a little longer, and then, heart pounding, slid it into the oven. As it baked, the house filled with a smell so warm and comforting, I forgot about all the stress and self-doubt.

When I pulled the loaf out, it wasn’t perfect — it had a slightly wonky shape, and my scoring attempt looked more like a toddler’s scribble than an elegant design. But when I cut into it, revealing that soft, airy crumb inside, I felt something I hadn’t expected: pride J

That loaf wasn’t just bread. It was a lesson in patience. In trust. In understanding that sometimes, the best things in life take a little longer than expected.

The Bread (and the Baker) That Changed

Since that first loaf, I’ve made countless more, and each one has taught me something different. I’ve learned to read the dough instead of the clock, to let go of perfection, and to enjoy the process as much as the final result.

And maybe that’s what bread baking is all about — not just flour and water, but a reminder that good things take time.

So if you’ve ever struggled with a stubborn loaf or doubted your baking abilities, let me tell you: the bread will rise.

Eventually.

And so will you.