Every sourdough has a story. Ours starts with a jar named Bubbles, born right here in our kitchen in August 2020 — back when the world felt upside down and all I could do was bake through it.
But truth be told, I’ve always loved sourdough. I grew up eating Boudin bread from San Francisco — the real deal. Any time we went into the city as kids, we’d swing by the wharf. Everyone else got clam chowder, but not me. I never cared much for it. I got the chili in a bread bowl, every single time — and it was heaven.
When I first started baking with Bubbles, I had no idea how important she would become to our family. What began as a kitchen science experiment turned into part of our wellness — and a whole lot of love. Since having my surgeries, I’ve found I tolerate sourdough much better than store-bought bread. It’s gentler on digestion, better for our health, and kinder to my body thanks to that lower glycemic index and long fermentation process.
And now, with our journey through EDS and uncovering more about Small Fry’s wheat sensitivity, we’ve found that he handles sourdough beautifully — much better than commercial breads, waffles, or pancakes. So we make it all: sourdough English muffins, pancakes, sandwich loaves, and yes — even tortillas. (Though I refuse to make another one until I get a proper tortilla press. I have my limits.)
We use sourdough in so many ways around here, it’s become part of our family. Both boys talk about using it when they grow up — like it’s just something you pass down, like cast iron or good manners. It’s part of how we teach life skills, and honestly, it’s real-life math. The kind you actually use. Measuring, feeding ratios, fermentation time — it’s all in there, and it sticks better than any worksheet ever could.
Saturday morning, Small Fry came into the kitchen and declared it was waffle time — and who was I to argue?
So Bubbles got an extra big feed, and we set aside some discard to make a batch of sourdough waffles on Sunday. That’s the thing about a good starter: she gives and gives, even when you’re not expecting it.
When I first got started, I used to daydream about sneaking Bubbles into Boudin’s like a little secret science experiment. Let her catch some of that legendary yeast in the air and soak up the magic. But now I know — sourdough starters don’t just absorb their environment, they become part of it. They’re living, responsive, adaptive. What you feed them, how you care for them, the rhythm of your home — it all matters.
People like to talk about 100-year-old starters, but here’s the truth: the yeast inside regenerates constantly. A starter is only as old as the yeast that’s living in it today.
That said, an established starter — one that’s been cared for and allowed to grow strong? That’s a powerhouse. My Bubbles is a scrappy little survivor. I’ve forgotten to feed her for a week (or two — life happens), and she still bounces back like nothing ever happened.
Friends who’ve gotten a scoop of Bubbles from me still rave about how strong she is — how quickly their dough rises, how good the flavor is, and how hard it is to kill her. She’s dependable, deeply rooted, and well-loved — just like anything worth keeping.
And let me tell you — even the sandwich loaf I accidentally overproofed on Friday still turned out soft, golden, and perfect for toast. That’s what happens when you’ve got a strong starter and a little grace in the mix.
I also whipped up a loaf of chocolate chocolate chip sourdough for Big Mac’s birthday breakfast — the only way that boy will touch anything eggy is if I turn it into French toast with Bubbles. I accidentally doubled the recipe (bless it), but it baked up beautifully — that loaf’s right there in the photo, proud and rich and full of love.
She’s not just flour and water. She’s therapy. She’s legacy. She’s the smell of something warm filling my kitchen on a hard day. She’s how I feed my people — like I always have.
I didn’t gain my curves eating McDonald’s. I gained them in the kitchen, learning how to season, simmer, and stir with love. I’ve only made one meal Sparky wouldn’t touch — some tragic lemon pork situation early on in our relationship that we just don’t speak of. Otherwise? I’ve got a reputation. I’ve had more than one friend’s husband say, “White girl can cook.” And they’re right.
Friends will ask me for recipes and then remember — I don’t really use them. I cook from the heart, from memory, from instinct. But when it comes to baking? I do measure — because baking is chemistry, and sometimes it matters whether that scoop of baking powder is level or not.
Garlic and vanilla, though? Those are measured by the heart. Around here, flavor leads, and the Holy Spirit handles the rest.
I meant to post this yesterday, but life (and chocolate bread) got in the way — so here we are.
Happy Sourdough Saturday Sunday, y’all. Me and Bubbles are still rising.
She’s fallen, but she can get back up — just like the rest of us.
Simple Southern Mommy 