This post is the first in a new Sourdough & Self category which will share musings from the baker's mind as they tend to their dough. 'Reflections from the bench', if you will. In this case, it's James' bench, but we will also be featuring writings and 'soul food' from others. Enjoy!
Cues Speak Louder Than Charts
If you focus on prescription-like percent rise, it’s a bit like using GPS to get somewhere. You might arrive, but you miss all the landmarks—the subtle cues that help you find your way back without a map.
It’s about learning how the dough looks as it ferments.
How it feels.
How it smells.
From wet sand… to striated… to smooth like putty—then, almost imperceptibly, it comes to life.
Pillowy. Responsive.
You see it take on a gloss, then transition to a soft satin finish.
Tiny pimples emerge on the surface as fermentation progresses.
The aroma changes—from raw and floury,
to sweet and floral,
and eventually, it begins to sour.
You notice how the same dough fills the same container.
How it jiggles when you nudge it.
How heavy or light it feels in your hands—how open or tight the same weight of dough feels as you divide and shape it.
You pinch it between your fingers, and it sighs from air escaping; subtle but distinct.
Divide it, and the cross-section looks like layers of sedimentary rock, a quiet history of fermentation and folds.
You watch how easily the dough relaxes after folding—whether it holds its shape or slumps.
You begin to see how the same dough fills your banneton—whether it domes gently on top, or spreads a little wider than usual.
Even taste becomes a tool.
A touch of dough to your tongue starts sweet and salty…as fermentation advances, acid cuts through—bright, sharp, zingy.
At first, these cues are noise.
But over time, you build a catalog.
Our sense of smell is powerfully tied to memory, and our fingertips can detect changes in texture as fine as a single micron.
These days, I don’t really do anything.
The dough tells me what it needs.
It asks for another fold.
Or a bit longer before shaping.
Or if I should shape gently because it’s already pushing its limits.
When to score a little deeper to allow for more bloom, or when to barely kiss the surface—to keep it’s fragile structure intact. Anything more would collapse it.
Do this enough, and the cues speak louder than any chart.
They become your instincts.
Your rhythm.
How you intuitively bake beautiful bread.
- James Bridges, May 2025
