It started with one innocent video. A woman in a linen apron was folding dough with the serenity of a meditation instructor, and I thought: how hard can it be? Three weeks later, my kitchen has been taken over by a jar of fermented flour and water that I have named Gerald. Gerald lives on the counter, needs to be fed twice a day, and has strong opinions about the temperature of my apartment. My first loaf came out of the oven looking less like artisan bread and more like a geology exhibit. It could have been used as a doorstop, a paperweight, or, in a pinch, a weapon. The second loaf was worse. The third one was almost edible. The turning point was not a better recipe. It was acceptance. Sourdough does not reward impatience, shortcuts, or 3 a.m. googling. It rewards showing up every day and doing one small thing well. These days Gerald and I have an understanding. He bubbles, I feed him, and on Sunday mornings the apartment smells like a real bakery. My family pretends they always believed in me. If you are thinking about starting sourdough: do it. Just know that you are not baking bread. You are adopting a very demanding, very rewarding pet.