A Mother’s Legacy

There’s something so special about sourdough. Maybe it’s the slow process, the quiet rising, or the way it fills a house with that unmistakable, warm, yeasty aroma. But for me, the sweetest part is the history baked into every loaf, especially when that history comes from my mom.

Last summer, when my mom came to stay with me during my sickest first trimester days, I had the chance to learn how to bake her sourdough bread, using the same starter she’s had since 1986. Yes, *1986*. That’s nearly four decades of life, of bubbles, flour and careful feedings. It’s been with her through seasons of joy and grief, through moves and milestones, through raising children and now helping me raise my own. And now, it’s feeding my family, too.

Standing beside her in the kitchen, she guided me through the process with that calm, practiced rhythm only years of experience can bring. She didn’t need timers or measurements written down. We mixed and folded and shaped, letting the dough tell us when it was ready. I watched the way her hands worked, she made it look simple…I know now from experience, it’s anything but!

There’s something deeply grounding about learning this from her. It’s not just baking bread, it’s continuing a legacy. It’s nourishment passed down through generations. And there’s something about sourdough specifically that makes it feel alive, like a relationship. You care for it, feed it, and it gives back to you. That feels a lot like motherhood, too.

Every time I pull a loaf from my own oven now, I know I’m not just baking bread—I’m continuing a story that began long before me.

And hopefully, one day, I’ll pass it on too.