Secretly, the idea of baking sourdough started— whatchamacallit?— fermenting in my brain
Why would someone want to eat sour bread?
Growing up, I had never heard of sourdough. My mother never made it, none of my siblings ever made it. It was a foreign element, similar, I’d say, to sushi.
Besides, I love my challos. I wouldn’t trade them for anything, definitely not for some sticky, sour thing that, I was told, expects to be treated like a child in your home.
Not me. Not in this lifetime.
I’m not sure when my vehement opposition started waning. Was it when my sister-in-law signed up for this life? When my next sister-in-law followed suit? Or when a third sister-in-law showed off her precious baby?
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