Robin Sloan Sourdough Novels & Stories

The colors were so rich and vibrant; it felt like a painting coming to life. She noticed a bakery set-up at the back and quickly walked there. She was so intoxicated by the aroma of freshly baked goodies as she got to the stall. She was particularly drawn to the crusty sourdough which the printing under it clarified that it was made with rosemary and garlic. “Can I have two loaves of those?” She pointed at it. “Of course,” the woman selling said with a bright smile. And wrapped two loaves into brown paper. “What else would you like to have?”

"The bakery up the road is open until five, by the way. If you need warming up after." "What bakery?" "Oh, you don't know about the bakery." He sat up a little straighter. "Sabrina. There is a bakery in the town up the road that makes a sourdough loaf that Tyler once drove two hours for." I stared at him and pressed my hand over my mouth. "Two hours. For bread. He did not!" "He absolutely did. He stood at the counter in a three-piece suit holding a leather briefcase and ordered one loaf of sourdough, and when she asked if he wanted it sliced he said—and I quote—'I wouldn't presume to tell you how to cut your own bread.'"

"I make excellent bread." She looked at him. "Bread," she said. "Bread," he said. "Sourdough specifically. I've been maintaining the same starter for eleven years." She thought about a man maintaining a sourdough starter for eleven years while also maintaining a file on a criminal organisation and hiding from the people connected to it. Something about the specificity of that made it more real than anything else he had said. "Eleven years is a long time to keep something alive," she said. He looked at her. "Yes," he said. "I suppose it is."

We simply unlocked the heavy iron padlock, pushed the plywood back, and allowed the thick, aromatic scent of the first morning batch to do the tactical marketing for us. The rosemary and sea salt focaccia was the first to hit the metal cooling racks, its blistered crust a perfect, golden honeycomb of olive oil and heat. Then came the flagship sourdough—the "Halsey Loaf"—boasting a dark, aggressively blistered exterior and an airy, complex interior crumb that looked like shattered glass.

he murmured, his voice groggy with sleep. "Yeah," I whispered, brushing a hand through his hair. "Everything’s okay." He nodded against my shoulder and drifted off again. --- The next morning started with sunlight and French toast. Nathan insisted on cooking, even though he had an early meeting with a local food supplier. "I’m trying a new kind of sourdough," he said while flipping the toast. "Thicker crust. More tang. Might make it the signature bread for our winter menu." I smiled. "You and your bread experiments."

He put the recipe sheet down. “You’ve been right about everything,” he said. “Not everything,” she said. “The carbonation recommendation in week three. You were right about that.” He looked at her. “You remember that,” he said. “I remember being wrong,” she said. “It’s useful.” He picked up his glass. “The sourdough you brought two weeks ago,” he said. “The one with the irregular crumb.” “Yes,” she said. “You said the inconsistency was a problem,” he said.

I wanted to try this sourdough. “Luna!” She smiled at me. “What can I do for you?” “Luna?” Little Peter ran around the counter before his mom could stop him. Crouching down, I held out my arms for a hug as he ran to me. “Hey buddy!” “Good evening, Alpha, Beta. What can I do for you guys?” “I wanted to try that sourdough I keep hearing about!” I said to Peter, but loud enough for his mom to hear.

I thought it might become two. Sarah arrived on the second afternoon with Barnaby and a box of sourdough supplies that she had somehow transported north as though bread-making equipment was a basic survival need. She took one look at the kitchen and said, “this oven is going to be a problem,” and immediately began negotiating with it as though it were a difficult colleague.

The smell of flowers and coffee and something sweet. "This is nice," I admitted. "I know. I'm brilliant." I laughed. For the first time in weeks, I actually laughed. We walked through the market, Sloane buying anything that caught her eye. A jar of honey. A bundle of lavender. A loaf of sourdough that she insisted was "life-changing." "You're going to eat all of this yourself?" I asked. "No. I'm going to share with you." She shoved the bread into my hands. "Consider it a gift. An apology for being a terrible friend."