Seventeen Pages of Sourdough
Marisol's grandmother gave her a jar of sticky, bubbly dough called a starter. "Feed it flour and water every day," Grandma said, "and it will make bread rise."
Marisol wrote everything in a notebook. On the first try, she forgot to feed the starter for two days. The loaf came out flat and hard, like a brick. Her brother knocked on it and said, "Anyone home?"
On the second try, the dough was so wet that it slid off the counter. On the third, she baked it too long, and the bottom turned black.
By the seventeenth page of her notebook, Marisol was tired. She almost wrote "I quit" at the top of the next page.
Instead, she read her notes from the beginning. She noticed something. The best bubbles always came on the days when the kitchen was warm. On cold days, the starter just sat there and did nothing.
So on the eighteenth try, she set the dough near the sunny window. She waited all afternoon. When she opened the oven, the loaf was tall and golden, and it smelled wonderful.
Her brother knocked on it again. This time it made a hollow, happy sound. "Someone's home," he said, and he asked for a second slice.