My starter is eleven years old. I brought it from a kitchen in Portland, kept it alive through two moves and one winter where the power went out for four days. It has a name. I'm not going to tell you what it is.

The morning bake starts at 4am. Not because I'm trying to be romantic about it — the wood stove takes two hours to get the oven up to temperature, and if I want bread by breakfast I have to start in the dark. The house is quiet. The dog is still asleep. The only sound is the fire and the occasional crack of the cast iron as it heats.

There's something about working with your hands before the world wakes up that resets everything. No phone. No noise. Just flour, water, salt, and a living culture that's been doing this longer than I have.

The loaf in this photo is a country sourdough — high hydration, long cold ferment, scored with a razor blade I've had for six years. The crust shatters when you cut it. The crumb is open and chewy. It tastes like the morning it was made.