Patience is a kind of love.
Twenty-four hours ago, I mixed flour, water, sourdough starter, and salt. Nothing fancy, nothing complicated. Just the fundamental alchemy of bread, stretched out over time. Because some things — the best things — can't be rushed.
I folded the dough every thirty minutes for the first few hours, watching it transform from shaggy and rough to smooth and elastic. Each fold built structure, developed gluten, created the webbed interior that makes focaccia so irresistible. Then into the fridge it went for a slow, cold ferment overnight. This is where the magic happens: where starches convert to sugars, where complex flavours develop, where patience becomes flavour.
This morning, I poured it into an oiled tray, the dough so soft and pillowy it barely held its shape. Another hour to warm up and relax. Then the best part: dimpling. Fingertips pressed into the dough, creating those characteristic craters. I drizzled olive oil generously into each dimple, scattered rosemary and halved cherry tomatoes, finished with flaky sea salt.
Into a hot oven it went, the kitchen filling with the smell of baking bread — that primal, comforting aroma that's been drawing people to tables for thousands of years.
Twenty-five minutes later: golden, crispy edges. Tender, airy crumb. Pools of olive oil shimmering in the dimples. This is what happens when you give time its due. This is bread as love letter.
