After multiple failed attempts, I stood in the kitchen holding my breath. My gut was telling me this one could be a success as each step was looking more and more promising. My husband and kids looked closely from a distance, eyeing to see if my determination would offer something they had been looking forward to devouring. The timer buzzed, I opened the oven door, pulled out the piping hot Dutch oven and placed it down. I stood there for just a moment. My family gathered around and as I slowly removed the lid, there were literally cheers. Peeking through was a perfectly rounded, brown, crisp crust. Joy filled the room that I finally had a successful sourdough. They all congratulated me and while the excitement elicited seems to be warranted for something far more grandiose, knowing the frustration of failing at something over and over, only to finally achieve a win, is what really was behind the accolades from my sweet kids and husband.

I cut into the boule and that crunch seemed to echo in the kitchen. Inside it was light and fluffy, with perfect holes that were begging to be smeared with the French salted butter I sourced from our local grocery store. It was the third successful loaf, so no longer could be deemed a stroke of luck, but victoriously climbing the learning curve. It was a simple achievement. Life is made up of many of those as the milestones are few and far between. As someone who makes any excuse to celebrate anything and everything, finally executing a golden, brown sourdough boule demands to be served with all the accompaniments of a charcuterie board, and with it, a bottle of bubbly.