Secretly, the idea of baking sourdough started — whatchamacallit? — fermenting in my brain

The first time I tasted sourdough, my review was straightforward. “It’s sour.”

Why would someone want to eat sour bread?

Growing up, I had never heard of sourdough. My mother never made it, none of my siblings ever made it. It was a foreign element, similar, I’d say, to sushi.

Besides, I love my challos. I wouldn’t trade them for anything, definitely not for some sticky, sour thing that, I was told, expects to be treated like a child in your home.

Not me. Not in this lifetime.

I’m not sure when my vehement opposition started waning. Was it when my sister-in-law signed up for this life? When my next sister-in-law followed suit? Or when a third sister-in-law showed off her precious baby?

Sourdough started making an occasional appearance on our Shabbos table. Sometimes it was a gift from one of the sourdough bakers in our family. Sometimes we bought it, because, shockingly, several members of our family discovered a keen liking for the sour stuff.