Failing at sourdough, slowly

Started a starter in late September. By November it had a personality but no rise. Lessons in patience, hydration, and admitting your kitchen is too cold.

The personality came first. Day four it smelled like nail polish, day six like green apple, and somewhere around day nine it settled into a sour, beery thing that I decided to call success. It bubbled. It doubled. I named it, which in hindsight was a mistake—you get attached.

The bread did not cooperate. Flat, dense, a crumb you could use to level a table. I blamed the flour, then the water, then my schedule, before finally buying a cheap thermometer and discovering the truth: my kitchen sits at 17°C and the dough was basically asleep.

The fix is embarrassingly low-tech. I proof it in the oven with just the light on—turns it into a barely-warm box, maybe 24°C. First loaf out of there actually had ears. Not pretty, but proud.

Still failing, then, but slower, and with better notes. If nothing else the kitchen smells like a real bakery now, which is most of the point.