Sourdough By Robin Sloan Novels & Stories

It was a mistake leaving things up to that kid. Back in the village, Susie smiled sweetly towards Diane who had been helping her with the winnowing of the rice. She then excused herself, grabbing a bag of flour that had already been packed. She headed back to her house as she hummed to herself. The stone oven was set to heat as she threw in some firewood, her gaze flickering to the now ignited fire. She grinned to herself as she started dusting the counter. Eggs, flour, sourdough starter and some water.

Ozzie tells me about Neva the way he tells me everything important — sideways, in a sentence that is technically about something else. We are at the bread stall at the weekend market, the one where everything began because a woman with river-water eyes stood at a pillar and said a word, and Ozzie is telling me that Neva has a thing about sourdough — specifically that she has very strong opinions about the fermentation time and that she said something about the bread at this particular stall that was simultaneously a compliment and a structural critique and he found it, he says, looking at the bread with the expression of a man choosing his words very carefully, *extremely compelling.*

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.

"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."

Elena's Pov I burned the first batch of sourdough completely the next morning, something I had not done since my very first nervous weeks learning to bake under Miss Clara's patient supervision. I stood staring at the blackened, ruined loaves for a long moment before I let myself acknowledge why.

The crisp air smells faintly of salt from the ocean, and the view of the rolling hills in the distance gives the trip an almost postcard-perfect charm. “Ma’am, you’ll love the sourdough croissants. They’re a town favorite,” Nanny Lori says over the hum of the engine. Dasha pipes up from the backseat. “And they’re super yummy! Maybe I can have a bite of yours, Ma’am?” she asks with a hopeful smile.

Fred was right, my match wasn't until the next couple of weeks, and it still wouldn't generate the amount of money that we needed. That asshole! He gets me into this mess! I pressed start and watch as the spinach and strawberry mixed together, then added a banana and the last cup of yogurt that I got from the fridge. I drink it all and put all the dishes in the sink for later. I was already too late for work. I took my helmet, and put on my jacket, and pick up my leather backpack from the couch. I was out the door, five minutes later.

"I tried to save the bakery. And now I'm trapped." The book smelled of flour and vanilla, of home. I opened it gingerly, stroking his handwriting in the margins. Instructions. Tips. Little notes. And then I noticed something that I had never seen before. There in the corner of the sourdough starter recipe were numbers. Not measurements. Something else. They were almost like coordinates, or chemical notations. Strange symbols that didn't belong. My heart started beating faster. I flipped to the next recipe. More numbers in the margins. Different but similar in structure.

However, the longer I think of him…the more my smile fades again. “Would you care to join me?” Ruth asks, regaining my attention. When I stare at her, I find she’s looking at me with excited expectancy. “Really?” I ask with disbelief. I can’t help but feel that baking with Ruth is some sort of privilege and I’m honored she’s asking. “Of course,” Ruth says. “I was just about to start on some sourdough bread.” “I’ve never made bread before,” I admit sheepishly. My reaction only causes Ruth’s smile to grow, an eagerness to flash through her eyes.

“Poached eggs with avocado toast?” “How about garlic bread and stew?” he asked, hope twinkling in his voice like a child asking for dessert before dinner. “One step at a time,” I replied, smiling. I rolled up my sleeves, washed my hands under the cold tap, and reached for the sourdough loaf. The crust crackled under the blade as I sliced it, releasing that warm, nutty aroma of good bread. I drizzled olive oil and a touch of butter on each slice, setting them in the pan to toast.