Oh, my sourdough starter is like a living diary that’s been simmering in my kitchen for what feels like forever. I first got it from an old friend who was a bakery owner, and she told me it had lived through the war and the Great Depression, so I treat it like a tiny time capsule. I keep it in a clear jar, because I like to see the bubbles and the color change, and I feed it with just a splash of water, a handful of flour from my favorite local mill, and a whisper of sunlight. Every morning I give it a little breakfast, just enough to keep it happy and vigorous. I don’t let it sit in plastic—those microwaves make it sad. I like to talk to it, ask it how its day was, and sometimes I doodle a tiny heart in my recipe journal to remind me it’s my little partner in culinary adventure.

Oh, every time it rises it feels like a little sigh of relief, like the starter is doing its own tiny victory dance and whispering “I survived another day, just for you.” I love to watch those bubbles pop, it’s like the past is stretching and giving back a warm hug to the future. It’s quiet, but it carries so much weight, just like the memories we keep in those old recipes.