***Trigger warning: domestic violence and abuse.
It was a loaf of sourdough that saved me, its strands of gluten holding me together like flour and water. The gravel car park was full of family-filled people movers as I pulled up, so it must have been late in the afternoon – around 4pm, just after the release of hundreds of still warm from the heat of their birth.
It was the first time that day that I realised what the time was. The morning was a hazy build-up of wrath and belittlements from him, until he used up the last of the countless straws I’d given. I finally gathered the courage to run.
Why was the bakery the first place I thought of for shelter, while my clothes – and wits – were still strewn chaotically in the backseat from leaving with no plan in mind? Maybe it was the sacred act of receiving bread, or the self-possession of bread-makers, but here it felt safe.
Legend has it that during in the 1800s, miners carried jars of sourdough starter as they travelled into the unknown – hugging these reminders of home and assurances of provision like safety blankets at night, to keep the cultures alive and warm. I thought of these vagabond pioneers and our shared hopes of finding a safe home as I opened the car door to the scent of tangy yeast and fresh eucalyptus.
My hands quivered as I slipped a tenner into the baker’s powdery hands, but holding the loaf anchored and stilled them. It still carried the warmth from the wood fire. I pulled it to my chest like a cure. The baker trilled an untroubled “have a good day!” as I departed, emitting a grace and kindness I hadn’t heard in a while – waiters and bartenders and baristas should never underestimate these pivotal words, as they can change the course of someone’s day.
Sourdough starter: worth protecting. Source: Alan Benson
Back in the car, I pulled apart the loaf with abandon, eating the pieces as if it were communion.
The Christians blessed it and called it daily bread; in some Arabic dialects, bread is referred to as “aish”, meaning life; in ancient Greece, bread was offered to the goddess Demeter for healing. Maybe here, crumb by crumb, I could exchange my humiliation for honour.
The first time I baked for him was the first time I saw his callousness up close.
It was March 2020 and amid the frenzy of unfamiliar concepts like ‘lockdowns’ and ‘makeshift morgues’, I – like many others – turned to baking. (precious cargo in those times), tangy starter from a sourdough-impassioned friend, a few days of patience, and I found myself with a beautiful, imperfect loaf that I brought to him like an offering.
He spat it out like a child. “What the hell is this? What a simple thing to f**k up.” I threw the whole loaf away after he stormed off, wiping away any evidence of flour and cruelty from the countertops.
This memory remained forgotten until my therapist uncovered it weeks after the escape. For months, the bag of flour sat crumpled in the most unreachable shelf in the pantry; the starter, another jar in the abyss of my fridge. Her voice was kind as she asked if I’d baked anything recently, and I didn't want to tell her that it had been a whole pandemic and I hadn’t touched dough since.
“Give it a go again,” she said. I nodded, recalling and how it gave homebound folk a sense of control and empowerment as they concocted banana bread and while the world crumbled outside.
Breadmaking has always been connected to survival.
Our took survival into their own hands instead of staying subject to the next hunt, mixed water with wild seeds and left their invention in the embers of a hearth.
M.F.K. Fisher’s from the Second World War suggested baking as a cure for an out-of-control world – as one witnessed a loaf “mysteriously rise and redouble and fall and fold under your hands”.
Why was the bakery the first place I thought of for shelter, while my clothes – and wits – were still strewn chaotically in the backseat from leaving with no plan in mind?
Displaced women living in the diaspora of Syria’s camps – stifled by a decade of war and soaring food prices – returned to the ancient art of breadmaking to feed their families. Over a roaring tandoor and metal griddle, these women found self-provision and self-preservation as they grilled their .
If they all found a fresh sense of indefatigability in a cathartic slow ferment, maybe I could too.
Levains, by their nature, are an act of fortitude and doggedness. They thrive when tended to with patience, but also show resilience when dealing with change: a different home, another kind of flour, or a changed feeding time all don't stop them from growing. These mixtures reflect their makers: a found that microbes on a baker’s hands often matched those within their starters – the best bread, full of the same character and robustness.
Slices of seeded wholemeal sourdough bread. Source: Alan Benson
I choose to make a starter from scratch this time. I want it to tell the story of my hands and the terroir of this life – a symbiosis of wild yeast and a fierce heart. Its daily feed is my meditation; its growth, my unhurried handiwork, and as I add to it daily, I gain more of myself back.
The bread baskets leave an egg-shaped imprint of dust on my shelf when I finally pull them out, and the warmth of the oven – even in the prickly heat of a West Australian summer – feels like a welcome tonic.
There are days when I find myself collapsing into myself in weariness, but they say that folds and stretches strengthen a sourdough. Sometimes, the loaves fall short of my expectations – crumbly or flat or heavy-weighted, but still, I knead and shape, until, in due course, I rise again.
This story was 'highly commended' in the SBS and Diversity In Food Media 'Journey Through Food' competition. You can find more shortlisted and winning entries and details about the competition .
If you or someone you know is experiencing family violence or sexual assault phone 1800RESPECT/ 1800 737 732 or visit . For counselling, advice and support for men who have anger, relationship or parenting issues, call the Men’s Referral Service on 1300 766 491 or visit .
