The sourdough starter bubbled quietly on the counter this morning, its yeasty-sweet smell filling the kitchen before I'd even opened my eyes. I'd forgotten to feed it yesterday, and for a moment I worried I'd lost the culture my neighbor shared with me last month. But there it was—alive, patient, forgiving.

I mixed the dough just after sunrise, flour dusting my hands like fine snow. The rhythm of kneading is something I'm still learning. Too gentle and nothing develops; too rough and I can feel the gluten tearing under my palms. Today I found a middle ground, working the dough until it felt like a baby's cheek—soft, but with resistance.

While it rose, I walked to the farmer's market. The vendor with the crooked smile was there again, the one who always saves me the ugly tomatoes. "These ones taste better," he said, sliding three misshapen heirlooms across the table. "The pretty ones forgot how to be tomatoes."

I thought about my grandmother's kitchen in the afternoon heat—how she'd slice tomatoes thick as books, sprinkle them with coarse salt, and let them weep onto the cutting board. She never measured anything. When I asked her once how much salt to use, she said, "Until it looks lonely. Then a little more."

Back home, the dough had doubled. I shaped it clumsily—my boule looked more like a potato—but when it went into the Dutch oven, I heard that beautiful hiss of steam. Thirty minutes later, the crust cracked golden and blistered. I let it cool exactly four minutes before tearing in.

The crumb was open and wild. I ate a thick slice with butter and one of those ugly tomatoes, salt crystals catching the light. It tasted like patience. Like forgiveness. Like my grandmother was still teaching me, one loaf at a time.

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