My grandmother kept a sourdough starter in a ceramic crock on the kitchen windowsill, fed it like a pet, talked to it like a friend. She started it in 1972 and kept it alive for decades, a living connection to every loaf she'd ever baked. This focaccia was her weekend project, started on Friday night and finished Saturday afternoon, the whole house warm with the smell of rosemary and olive oil. The photographs from those days show golden bread on floral tablecloths, hands reaching in to tear off pieces, everyone gathered close. Slow food before we had a name for it. Food that asked you to wait, to trust, to believe that good things come to those who give time the respect it deserves.