Slow-Rising Meadow Bread
Bread is alive. Your sourdough starter—a jar of wild yeasts captured from the air—is a living garden, fermenting flour into something ancient and new. Twenty-four hours may seem long, but this is the pace of nature. Dough rises like meadow grasses reaching for light, developing flavour through patience alone. Dimpled with fingertips, drizzled with olive oil, dotted with rosemary and tomatoes, focaccia becomes an edible landscape. The crust cracks golden, the interior stays cloud-soft. Tear it, share it, dip it in good oil. This is bread that remembers its wild origins, that tastes of time and care.
