Start with the flour. Stone-ground, if you can find it, from a mill that grinds whole wheat berries and sifts to order. This matters more than any technique I can teach you. Industrial flour has been stripped of its germ and bran, then artificially aged. It bakes predictably but tastes of nothing. Flour from a small mill smells alive, faintly sweet, almost grassy. It wants to become bread.

Sourdough is the oldest leavened bread we know. Wild yeast captured from the air, fed with flour and water, kept alive in a jar on your counter. No packets, no manufacturing plants. Just time and attention. The starter is a living thing. Treat it like one.

This boule teaches you to watch, to feel, to trust your hands more than any timer. The dough tells you when it is ready. It domes. It jiggles. It holds the impression of your finger, then springs back slowly. These signs matter more than hours on a clock. Every kitchen is different. Every starter has its own pace. Learn yours.

The bread you pull from the oven will have a crust that shatters when you press it, a crumb that is open and airy, and a flavor that no commercial loaf can match. You made this. From flour, water, salt, and time. Nothing more.