Our sourdough starter is older than the farm. It came with us from the apartment, fed through the early confusion of our first growing season, and somehow survived everything since. We've named it and lost the name, named it again. It doesn't care. It just keeps rising.
Every Friday we bake six to eight loaves, depending on what the week has been like. The bread goes to pickup alongside the vegetables and eggs. When it's gone, it's gone — we don't announce it ahead of time. If you're there early, you get bread. If not, there's always next week.
Sourdough is slow work. The starter needs feeding. The dough needs time — usually an overnight cold proof that starts Thursday evening. There's no way to rush it without ruining it, and a ruined loaf on a farm means a very happy compost pile and a very humbled baker.
We bring the bread because food should come together. Not just eggs in a bag and cheese in a carton — but a table. When someone takes home a loaf with their eggs and their spring onions, they're taking home a meal. That's what we want. Not transactions. Meals.