Sourdough By Robin Sloan Novels & Stories

“Of course, Mrs. Schultz. I’d be happy to put you on the schedule for bread delivery. And I’d be happy to bring you that sourdough starter with the first delivery,” I say into the phone, jotting down notes on my ordering pad. “That’s perfect. Thank you so much, Mr. Gomez,” the older lady says. “I used to love to make my own bread, but I just don’t have the ability to knead it anymore. I can do it for the sourdough, since that doesn’t take much.”

“Good choice.” We made our way to a booth selling freshly baked sourdough and pastries. I picked out a cinnamon roll the size of my face, while Mason opted for a plain croissant. “Plain?” I teased as we found a bench to sit on. “That’s so boring.” “It’s classic,” he countered, taking a bite. “You can’t go wrong with the basics.” I rolled my eyes but didn’t argue, too focused on the gooey sweetness of my cinnamon roll.

He carried the weight of the world on his shoulders alone. Shaking his head, Sloan hunted in the fruit until he found a busted watermelon. One side was rotten, but the other side was perfect for making a bowl. After he broke the rind, he dug out the center and then washed his new container. Smiling, he decided all his work in the coffee shop was finally worth something. This might be the grossest smoothie ever, but it was food, and it was liquid. Sloan began to squeeze oranges into his rind bowl. After chewing apples, he spat the pulp into the makeshift container. He worked to find anything in the pile that was soft or liquid, and that was still in good condition.

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.

So she could make herself a drink and hide in her room a little longer. I walked behind Troy, Sia, Aiden, and Daniel who by the way wasn’t wearing jeans and a t-shirt anymore. Now he had on gray pants and a black shirt with buttons. His hair was cut shorter and his shoulders were so wide they covered half the hallway. He and I were the only ones not talking. Troy and Aiden looked very bored while Sia talked about how to make sourdough bread. She said you had to let the dough sit in the sun, feed it, talk to it, and treat it like a fragile object.

"Can I get two black coffees and a loaf of the sourdough?" The girl looked up. Her eyes, a sharp, striking hazel, scanned my face. She didn't look hostile, just highly observant. "You are new," she noted, wiping her hands on a rag. "Just passing through," I replied, keeping my tone casual. "Is the sourdough fresh?" "Baked it at dawn," she said, turning to grab a paper bag. She slid a heavy, crusty loaf inside and handed it across the counter. "I'm Maya. I run the caffeine and carbs operation in this sector."

for short, who spent her days perched atop the register, hissing at anyone who wore too much perfume). They tried out new recipes, sometimes from the algae cultures Xander grew in fish tanks, sometimes from scrawled notes left in the bakery’s margins by the building’s former owners. Each time one of his mutant sourdoughs unexpectedly exploded, Carolina would shriek with delight and chase him around the kitchen with a towel. Sometimes he’d let her catch him, just to see the way her jaw softened when he stopped running.

the other man signed back, totally unbothered. Focused on his plate, he didn’t even pretend to notice the middle finger the black-haired guy flashed him. A little giggle slipped from my lips, and I caught the attention of those midnight eyes. For the first time, I saw doubt crack through his mask, and I thought: this is my moment. “Egg whites. Just whites... no yolk, no butter, nothing. And that sourdough... dry. ‘Avocado toast,’ they call it, like that name’s supposed to make it less sad.”

Laughter from customers. Dave stood behind the counter, sleeves rolled up, hands dusted with flour. He wasn’t the broken man from years ago—but the softness in his eyes carried history. He had rebuilt everything. Not just the business but also himself. That morning, excitement filled the air. The city’s annual baking competition had finally arrived—a prestigious event where top bakeries competed to create the best **sourdough bread**. Dave stood in his station, apron tied firmly. Rows of competitors lined up, each with their own techniques, ingredients, and pride on the line.