Meet Bertha, the starter who has a family

Every loaf that leaves this house begins in a jar.

I started the starter on Christmas 2025, in that strange week when the oven is already on and nobody minds another bowl on the worktop. She is called Bertha. Big Bertha is the larger jar I use when it is actually bake day. Both are fed, minded, and spoken to more often than is strictly necessary.

A starter is not complicated. Flour, water, time, and the habit of showing up. You discard a little, you add a little, you wait. After a few days it smells like yoghurt and wet wheat. After a fortnight it is reliably hungry. After a few months it is a member of the family, whether you planned that or not.

Jeremie, Theo and Millie are the official taste testers. They will tell you, without much poetry, if the crumb is tight or the crust has gone shy. Bertha does not take notes. She just bubbles.

Why a starter has a name

Naming it is not a gimmick. It is a reminder that this is a living thing you cannot rush. If I skip a feed, Bertha tells me. If the kitchen is cold, she sulks. If I am kind and on time, she gives me a dough that holds its shape and a loaf with a blistered crust.

That is the whole point of Braw Bread: a small home bakehouse, not a shop. The bread is naturally leavened because that is how I like to bake, and because it tastes of more than yeast and hurry.

From gifts to a weekly list

The first loaves were gifts. Friends, family, anyone who would take a warm bag and send a photograph of the first slice. The list grew the way a starter grows - slowly, then all at once.

I still bake from a home kitchen, fitted around the rest of life. That is the point of a small bakehouse: not a cap on customers, but a way of keeping the bread honest. Cookies and cinnamon rolls can ride along with the loaf.

If you want a weekly loaf from Bertha’s jar, choose a day. She is already hungry.