Baking Journal

I assumed 100% whole wheat with milk as the only liquid would mix like yesterday’s all-milk sandwich loaf, just wheatier, with sugar and oil in from the start.

Milk was warm, about 80 to 90°F. Ten minutes on low left it like soft-serve. It pulled, and it never made a windowpane. After the rest it was one tan mass. The hook ridges were torn, the high spots dry and cracked, the creases still wet. It holds together, and it glues itself to my hands. My water whole wheat dough windowpanes on the first mix and then lets go.

Nothing coats that water dough, so the gluten links as soon as it hydrates. This bowl has three coatings. Bran cuts the strands. Milk fat greases the proteins so they slip. Sugar leaves a syrup on bran that is still drinking, and the oil greases them again. Starch pastes the mass together. It never sheets, so the loose water moves onto my hands. Sugar and oil close the crumb on purpose. The mostly white loaf still had enough gluten to stay open. This flour does not.

What I’m taking forward: Bake this bowl in the pan. The next experiment is the same whole wheat sandwich, with water in place of the milk and the same oil, sugar, and the rest. After that, autolyse the flour in milk alone, then starter and salt, then sugar, then a smaller dose of oil, plus about 2 g vital wheat gluten per 100 g flour and a fifth of the flour scalded.

I ran the 500 gram classic base with all milk and assumed four hours in the fridge would leave it small. The dough is more whole wheat than white, and it carries sugar and oil, so I expected a tight loaf.

The rise was good. The crust baked golden under a light flour dust, and the crumb is even and soft, with small holes through both halves. I set the dough on the counter when I turned the oven on, so it warmed during preheat instead of waiting out a separate hour. I baked at 375°F for 35 minutes. This base worked. I rated it 5 out of 5.

Most of the gas was already in the dough before the fridge. The levain was a 1:2:2 build, about 20% of the flour prefermented, and bulk ran about two hours and twenty minutes until doubled. The added liquid was milk in the levain and in the dough. Milk fat and lactose soften the crumb and brown the crust, but they do not replace a bulk that already doubled. Four hours cold finishes the chill and firms the skin. Leave it overnight and it starts down the same slack path as the 27-hour country loaf.

What I’m taking forward: Keep the 4-hour cold proof on this all-milk base. Put the loaf on the counter when the oven goes on. Bake at 375°F for 35 minutes.

I mixed a 450 gram country loaf at about 82% hydration, mostly bread flour with a little whole wheat. Warm bulk was real this time: two stretch and folds, two coil folds, then another 80 minutes until the dough was puffy and jiggly. I assumed that bulk had done the rising, and a long cold proof would mostly dry the skin, build blisters, and add flavor.

The blisters showed up. The crust baked deep mahogany and thin, covered in small pale bubbles, and the score tore into a wide ragged ear. The crumb was creamy and even, thin-walled, more open under the crown than at the base, with no gummy core. The shape was a broad dome. It spread more than it rose.

Warm bulk ran about three and a half hours. The cold proof ran 27 hours. Yeast slows once the dough is cold, but it keeps working while the loaf cools, and acids plus enzymes keep relaxing the gluten the whole time it sits. By bake time the dough was fully fermented and a little slack. The gas was there. The skin gave way at the cut, so the spring went sideways. That is the opposite of the short-bulk cold proof that tasted sharp and never rose. Here the warm bulk was enough. The extra day in the fridge is what pushed it over.

What I’m taking forward: Keep this warm bulk and end it on the dome and the jiggle. Shorten the cold proof when I want height, and shape tighter if the loaf will sit a full day in the fridge. Score a little off-center and not as deep once the dough feels slack, so the ear does not blow the loaf flat.

When my previous rack bake came out flat, I blamed the rack, convinced that lifting the loaf off the cast iron floor had killed bottom heat transfer. To test this, I kept everything identical (levain seeded straight from the cold fridge jar and a strict 50-minute counter bulk), but baked directly on the Dutch oven floor. It emerged just as flat. The rack was completely innocent.

Then came the taste test: the crumb was shockingly sharp and intensely sour. Sourdough bakers usually associate deep sourness with over-fermentation, yet this loaf had barely spent an hour on the counter before heading into the fridge.

That contrast revealed the cold proof acid trap. Wild yeast goes dormant below 50°F (10°C), but lactic and acetic acid bacteria continue churning out acid in the chill. With only fifty minutes of warm bulk, the yeast never had the warmth or time to inflate the gluten matrix with CO&sub2;. Meanwhile, carrying over dormant, acid-heavy seed from the fridge gave bacteria an even bigger head start. The result was maximum acid accumulation with zero rise.

What I’m taking forward: Get an active, fresh starter before a serious bake (see the fridge starter refresh guide). End bulk fermentation by dough signals (dome, aeration, and jiggle), never a rigid timer. But I know, sometimes we just don’t know how much jiggle is jiggle enough.

I changed two variables: I gave my starter enough time to fully wake up before mixing, and I dropped a small low wire rack inside the Dutch oven so the dough sits on parchment above the cast iron floor.

The rack worked — no scorched bottom. With an active starter, the loaf sprang better than my previous bake. It still stopped short of a full rise.

I held bulk to the plan’s 50-minute mark. An active starter brings healthy yeast, but that yeast still needs time in the dough to build gas and structure. Fifty minutes cut fermentation before the dough had real volume. Lifting the loaf also traded direct bottom heat for circulating air — less scorched crust, less upward punch when the dough is under-fermented.

What I’m taking forward: Ferment by dome, aeration, and jiggle — not a rigid 50-minute timer. Give the Dutch oven and rack an extra 10–15 minutes of preheat. Starter activity builds the engine; bulk duration builds the structure.

A well-fermented loaf usually takes me about three days, including time to activate the levain. This time I tried to compress it — build the levain, finish bulk, and shape in a single day.

I usually watch the dough instead of following the plan’s clock. Here I stuck to the planner schedule. Those estimates assume a strong starter. Mine wasn’t there yet. The loaf came out flat, dense, and pale.

Cold retard didn’t finish what bulk never started. Same family of under-fermentation as fool’s crumb — big voids over a tight matrix when gas never developed evenly. That’s what pushed me to wait for a full peak before the next bake.

What I’m taking forward: Don’t compress a three-day ferment into one day when the starter is weak. Watch the dough, not the schedule — especially when the plan assumes a stronger levain than you have. Fridge for flavor; unfinished bulk stays unfinished.

The August 24 blueberry loaf went flat. This time I ran a 450g Classic, stayed in the pan, and mixed at 60% water so the fresh berries could finish the dough at about 75% hydration.

I was paying for juice up front instead of adding water “for the fruit.” That’s the move in Why Fruit Flattens a Wet Dough.

The loaf came out great. Good crumb. The rise was moderate — less expansion than a plain loaf, which is what I expected once berries are sitting in the crumb.

What I’m taking forward: Count berry juice in the hydration. Mix closer to 60% water when you want ~75% with fresh fruit. Expect less oven spring than a plain loaf even when the crumb is good.

Whole wheat sandwich loaf at 95% hydration — my highest yet for a pan loaf. Life got in the way and fermentation ran about three hours past plan.

At the bench the dough was airy and sticky. I skipped the pre-shape, split the dough into three pieces, and laid them side-by-side in the pan before a fridge proof.

Despite being well over on the clock, the loaf came out better than I expected — open custardy crumb, thin golden crust, warm tan from the whole wheat. A few larger pockets near the top read as structure starting to slip before bake.

I don’t think my shaping for pan loaf is good enough. I did some research. Check this shaping guide for high hydration loaf.

What I’m taking forward: High-hydration whole wheat needs a tighter proof window — three hours over is luck, not a plan. Watch dome + jiggle above ~90% hydration.

My first sandwich loaf in about two months — I’d been on artisan boules since Japanese milk bread in May. I started late and put the starter in the oven with just the light on (~95°F) to speed levain; it was ready in about six hours.

By mix time I was racing bedtime. The kitchen had cooled to ~70°F — not the 75°F my app assumes. I gave it the planner’s 1h40 final rise, then into the fridge for a cold proof. Overnight it was still flat.

Next morning I pulled it to room temp and let it run a long final proof — about three hours. It rose and domed. I baked on dome + jiggle, not the clock.

The loaf came out nice overall. A few big bubbles and some tunneling still read as under-proof from that short, cool first rise — pockets that never fully caught up even after the long room-temp extension. See the Artisan vs Sandwich proofing guide for pan-specific reads.

What I’m taking forward: Budget final proof at real room temp. A cold proof won’t fix a short first rise — plan room-temp extension when the dough is still flat. On sandwich loaves, dome + jiggle before bake. When I start late, warm the proofing spot or start earlier next time.

My first bake with stiff starter — and I used whole grain flour on top of it. I'd known stiff starter was a technique for years, but I'd never tried it. I had no idea it needed to be dissolved in the water first. I dropped the firm ball straight into flour, salt, and water and mixed until the bowl looked uniform. No pre-soak; I assumed the stand mixer would distribute everything.

The dough was wrong immediately — watery, slack, impossible to shape. Not “a bit wet.” Unworkable. I waited two hours hoping bulk would fix it. Nothing changed. Still watery. Still dead, like there was no starter at all.

The failure wasn't hidden. It was right there in the bowl the whole time — though with whole grain, it was even easier to miss. Whole wheat bran and stiff starter lumps are both tan and speckled, so the mix looked even when it wasn't. I wasn't waiting on fermentation — I was waiting on a mix that never started.

I put together a Stiff Starter Dissolve Guide from what I learned — dissolve in all recipe water before flour, every time, even with a stand mixer.

At first glance this looked like another fool's crumb — big caverns at the top, uneven holes, a wide flat loaf. But the crumb around those voids was fully fermented. The problem wasn't time. It was dough strength.

During a 4.5-hour bulk I only did one stretch and fold. I forgot the rest. The yeast kept working, but the gluten never caught up. Gas pooled into a few huge pockets instead of spreading through a tight web.

Same visuals as fool's crumb — tunneling up top, denser bands below — but a different fix. Fool's crumb means you pulled too early. Weak dough means you didn't build enough structure to hold the gas you already had.

Decent crust and ear, but the loaf spread more than it rose — another strength tell.

What I'm taking forward: Set a timer for stretch-and-folds at the start of bulk — 3–4 sets over a 4.5h bulk, 30–45 minutes apart. When the crumb looks wrong, check strength before blaming proof time.

Today I crossed a small but real threshold in my baking — I started feeling the dough during mixing and adjusting water on instinct, instead of trusting the numbers on the scale alone.

I was working on a mini loaf. On paper, the hydration looked reasonable. But the moment I got my hands in the bowl, something felt off. The dough was too slushy — the kind of loose, wet texture I'd expect closer to 80% hydration, even though my formula said something lower.

That's the thing nobody warns you about when you switch flour brands: absorption rate changes everything. The same baker's percentage can feel completely different depending on which bag you opened. One brand drinks water eagerly; another leaves you swimming in a sticky puddle that the recipe never promised.

So I didn't panic. I added more flour, a little at a time, until the dough finally felt right under my fingers — cohesive, with some resistance, no longer that soupy 80% sensation. It was an intuitive correction. The scale wasn't wrong, exactly; my flour just wasn't reading from the same script.

The bake rewarded that trust. The crust came out deep golden with a beautiful ear along the score — that raised ridge where the dough opened in the oven. Inside, the crumb had exactly what I was hoping for: open, irregular holes and a creamy interior. Good oven spring for a loaf this size. For a mini loaf, it was perfect.

What I'm taking forward: Record the flour brand next time, along with starting hydration, so I can track how different bags behave over bakes. And trust the dough — if it reads slushy at the mix, a flour correction is valid even when the formula says otherwise. The numbers get you close; your hands finish the job.

I thought 3.5 hours at 85°F was the sweet spot, but the cross-section revealed a classic sourdough challenge: the "Fool's Crumb." While the bread had "crazy crumbs" (massive holes) at the top, the bottom remained much denser. This is a tell-tale sign of underproofing.

Even though the temperature was high and the dough was active, 3.5 hours wasn't long enough to build a uniform gas structure. When it hit the hot oven, the weak structure couldn't hold the expansion, causing a massive "tunneling" effect at the top while the rest of the crumb didn't have enough air to stay open.

The Fix: Next time, I'll ignore the clock and wait for a visible 30-50% volume increase during bulk fermentation. At 85°F, the difference between "underproofed" and "perfect" can be as little as 30 minutes. It's a narrow window, but that's the price of high-temperature speed!

Science Note: Is 85°F too hot? Not for the micro-organisms. Wild yeast only starts to die off around 120°F (49°C), and lactic acid bacteria thrive right up to 86°F. However, the real risk at 85°F isn't killing the starter, but proteolysis — where enzymes break down the gluten structure too quickly. Ironically, I was so worried about overproofing that I pulled it out too early.

Following up on my last loaf — the one that ended up overproofed and became focaccia — I’ve been reflecting on the mixing stage. This time, I pushed the hydration to 75%. I usually stick to 70% as it’s much more manageable, but 75% definitely takes it to a stickier, more challenging level.

I used my stand mixer for this batch. One key takeaway: for high hydration dough, you can't be afraid to crank up the speed. I found that turning the mixer to a higher speed was essential to strengthen the gluten network. It’s fascinating to watch the transformation; once it hits that higher gear, the dough starts to pull away from the sides and the surface begins to smoothen out beautifully.

The lesson here: if you're struggling with a sticky mess at high hydration, don't just add more flour. Try more speed! It's all about that mechanical energy to build the structure needed to hold all that water.

I completely lost track of time today. My wife and I went to watch Hoppers (Great movie by the way). However, I totally forgot about my raising sourdough dough sitting in the oven with the light on. As the result, my sourdough dough was sitting in the corner, rising... and rising... and rising. By the time we came home, it had completely blown up. In the past, I might have just baked a flat, dense "flying saucer" or worse, tossed it. Instead, I decided to try the focaccia-pivot.

I dumped the bubbly mess into a well-oiled pan, added even more oil on top, and just let it be. Even though it was technically overproofed, giving it another two hours in the pan allowed it to relax and fill out. Dimpling it after that final pan-rise was the game-changer. The result? The most incredible, bubbly, crispy-bottomed focaccia I've ever made.

I was so inspired by the rescue that I put together a Quick Focaccia Rescue Guide for next time. If you find yourself with forgotten dough, don't panic — just grab the olive oil and a pan!

I love watching my levain when it's at its peak. It's fluffy, bubbly — almost alive in the best way. It's late winter in California, so overnight temperatures in my kitchen hover around 60°F. I mixed the levain before going to bed and let it sit on the counter overnight. This photo is what I found around noon the next day — a good 12 hours later.

What you're looking for: the top should be domed and slightly rounded, with big "fish-eye" bubbles on the surface and a web of smaller crackly ones running all the way through. When you scoop it, it should be light and pillowy — almost foamy — not dense or flat. The smell should be pleasantly tangy, maybe a little fruity, like yogurt or green apple. That's your sign the wild yeast and lactic acid bacteria are doing their thing. If it smells sharp and vinegary, it's peaked and started to decline; flat and bready usually means it's not quite there yet.

At 60°F, a 12-hour overnight rise works beautifully because the cool temperature slows fermentation just enough to let the flavor develop without overproofing. Warmer rooms (70–78°F) will push it to peak in 4–8 hours — great for baking the same day, but you'll need to time it more precisely.

Tip — want your levain ready before you head out to work? Put it in your oven with just the oven light on. That gentle heat is often enough to hold a steady 75°F. Mix it the night before, and it should be at peak right around when you're getting ready in the morning — ready to start your bulk fermentation before you leave.

Just baked a soft bread — and it came from a total accident. I forgot about the dough in the oven during a warm proof and left it for about 20 hours. It definitely exploded and overproofed. I wasn’t expecting much.

But the crumb was surprisingly soft and pulling, like pulled pork — a texture I’d been chasing for ages without luck. So maybe the lesson isn’t “don’t overproof” so much as “maybe I need to proof longer?” I’m going to try pushing the proof time on purpose next time and see if I can get that same tenderness without the full explosion.