The Cozy Ritual of Fall: My Sourdough Story

There’s something about fall that draws me to the kitchen — maybe it’s the cooler mornings or the scent of herbs drying on the counter. As the days shorten and the air turns crisp, baking sourdough becomes a small act of comfort. It’s part ritual, part meditation, and part magic — the simple joy of watching flour, water, and time transform into something warm and alive.

My sourdough journey began in Rhode Island with a close friend who always seems to be in the kitchen. It’s where we’ve spent countless hours together — talking, cooking, and letting our kids run wild in the yard while something simmers on the stove. I had recently decided to try a new challenge for myself: make one less thing a grocery store staple. Bread was first on the list — something simple, nourishing, and made with just a few real ingredients.

One afternoon, while I was visiting her and the kids played outside, she turned to me and said, “I think I’m going to start making sourdough.” I laughed, because I had just made my first starter that week. “I’m already there,” I told her. “I’ll bring you some starter next time I come by.” That first starter was named Taylor Sift — because I can’t resist a good pun, and every homemade creation deserves a name with a little humor baked in.

When life brought me west to Arizona, Taylor Sift didn’t make the journey. The dry desert air called for a new beginning, so I started again — a fresh starter born of local flour, warm days, and desert air. This one, naturally, became Dough-bi Wan Kenobi. Every time I feed it, I smile — proof that you can blend tradition and playfulness, even in something as humble as bread.

What I didn’t expect when I began baking was how quickly sourdough connects people. Conversations that might have started with small talk suddenly turn into recipe exchanges, starter stories, and tales of dough gone wrong (and right). I’ve found myself swapping tips with neighbors, farmers market friends, and even people who never thought they’d bake a loaf in their lives. There’s something universal about it — the simple act of making bread breaks down barriers.

Each fall, as loaves rise and the oven warms the house, I’m reminded that sourdough isn’t just about feeding ourselves. It’s about connection — to the seasons, to our roots, and to one another. From Rhode Island’s green farms to Arizona’s golden desert, every loaf carries a bit of both — a reminder that even when life changes, the rituals that ground us remain.