The Einkorn Diaries: Attempt #1
Feb 16 | Written By: Sabrina Huizar
I went into this bake feeling pretty confident. Not overconfident. Just normal sourdough confident. I’ve baked enough bread at this point to feel like I generally know what I’m doing.
Then I decided to make a loaf with 100% einkorn.
I knew einkorn was different. Everyone says it’s softer, weaker, more delicate. What I didn’t fully appreciate is that einkorn is also the kind of flour that will quietly humble you while you stand in your kitchen trying to stay optimistic.
The dough actually started out fine. Soft, yes. Sticky, a little. But nothing I hadn’t handled before. I kept telling myself this was normal. Ancient grain. Ancient personality. It just needed time.
During bulk fermentation I did what I always do. I watched it. I waited for that familiar rise. That puff. That jiggle.
It rose… a little.
I kept checking it. Waiting for it to look more alive. Waiting for that reassuring bounce. It never really got there. There were bubbles. Some movement. Just not the kind that makes you feel confident.
That’s the first moment I should have known this was going to be a character-building experience.
Still, I moved forward.
Then came shaping.
This is where I started to question my life choices.
The dough wasn’t impossible, but it was definitely a sticky mess. Not soft. Not cooperative. Sticky. Clingy. The kind of dough that makes you wonder if you’ve made a terrible mistake but you’re already too far in to turn back. It didn’t want to hold tension. It just wanted to exist. On the counter. On my hands. Everywhere.
At one point I seriously considered aborting. Maybe pivot and call it something else. But no. By then I was committed. Emotionally invested. Slightly stubborn. Mostly stubborn.
So I pushed through what can only be described as the einkorn shaping gauntlet and got it into the basket. It wasn’t pretty. I wasn’t proud. It was more like a blob with potential. I was already a little traumatized from the shaping. I told myself it would be fine. It had to be fine.
I decided to cold proof it because I wanted it to ferment a little more without going completely feral on the counter. It felt like the responsible thing to do. Calm. Controlled. Sensible.
Later, I pulled it from the fridge, gave it a simple score, and slid it into a very hot Dutch oven.
I actually said out loud, in my kitchen, “It’s in God’s hands now.”
When I lifted the lid, I knew immediately what had happened. The score opened. But instead of rising upward, it just… relaxed. Wide. Rustic. Low. A loaf that clearly had no interest in being tall.
I stood there staring at it for a minute trying to figure out what I was feeling.
Was I disappointed? A little.
Was I humbled? Yes.
Was I already mentally adjusting hydration for the next time? Also yes.
Once it finished baking and cooled, the truth became clearer. It was gummy. It was dense. The flavor? Was incredible. Warm, nutty, slightly sweet. It was actually really good bread. It just didn’t look the way I expected it to look.
That’s when it clicked.
Einkorn doesn’t care about my expectations. It doesn’t respond to the same cues as modern wheat. It has its own limits and its own rhythm. And if you try to make it behave like something it’s not, it will gently remind you who’s in charge.
For a minute, I felt very humbled standing there with my wide, very relaxed loaf.
But I also couldn’t help laughing a little.
Because it tasted amazing. And honestly, nothing goes to waste around here. I ended up using it with a pot of chili beans and it was absolutely delicious. So even a “failed” loaf still finds a very good home in this kitchen.
So this is where we begin.
This was Attempt #1.
Stay cultured and stay tuned.
—Sabrina
Ancient Einkorn Sourdough Starter Culture
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