A slow week of sourdough
The starter sat unloved on the windowsill for most of February. It was only when I moved the jar next to the boiler cupboard that it began to bubble the way the books promised.
Cold kitchens slow everything down. A loaf that takes five hours in summer needs closer to nine in a draughty room, and the dough tells you when it is ready far better than the clock does.
This week's loaf had a thin, crackling crust and an open crumb. I scored it too shallowly, so it burst along the side instead. I am calling that rustic.