Sourdough found us in 2018, traveling around the US in an RV with a dog and three bunnies.
Sitting in a moodily lit, hole in the wall restaurant, we broke into a loaf of sourdough with the richest life changing flavor. The waiter brought out the chef, who insisted it was from a genuine, no bogus starter.
He turned his back and we quietly wrapped crumbs from the loaf in a paper napkin. Surely *some* yeast survived baking?
We took it home, researched the encantations required to whisper life back into it, and carefully brewed a new abode for this uniquely impressive culture.
A week passed, and with careful tending, she emerged back as strong as ever. In the ensuing months, we used the RV's tiny propane oven, a pizza stone, and a salad-bowl-for-cloche, and began honing skills slumbering deep in our DNA.