Sourdough, Grace, and the ritual of life
and how ChatGPT helped me get into baking
I have always been a passionate cook. It started when I was 18, standing over an electric range in my Midwestern dorm room, making cabbage soup. My roommate Kim and I were determined to lose the freshman fifteen, and I was equally determined to escape cafeteria food and the looming threat of more pounds. That practical pot of diet soup awakened something in me: a love for cooking and, more importantly, cooking for others.
Back then, hosting meant “dinner parties” in my tiny dorm room, where my roommate’s boyfriend, Eric, became the unofficial plate runner, sneaking dishware out of the cafeteria in his backpack as the guest list kept growing. I made elaborate Vietnamese dishes like spring rolls from scratch, using recipes emailed over by my mom in Vietnam. It was chaotic, scrappy, and joyful, a preview of the life I would build in kitchens around the world.
Fast forward 23 years, I’ve cooked countless meals, hosted countless dinners, run an underground supper club in New York, and started a food-forward social club in Los Angeles. Through it all, my cooking has remained consistent: seasonal, natural, health-driven, with a Vietnamese twist. My baking? Equally consistent: non-existent.
But life has a way of reshaping us. Today, as a new mom, I find myself doing the one thing I never thought I would: baking. Not just occasionally, but obsessively. Gone are the elaborate multi-course meals; in their place is sourdough. And, unexpectedly, it has become one of the most meaningful rituals of my life.
I am not part of the COVID sourdough wave, though my mom was. Two years ago, when I moved back to Vietnam to be with her, she was still riding that wave, baking loaves every other day. As someone always conscious of health, I started looking more closely at sourdough’s benefits and decided that if I was going to eat bread, it had to be this.
Then I got pregnant, and hunger took on new meaning. My mom’s sourdough became a staple. Over a year later, my newborn daughter was ready for solids. By then, we had moved to St. Louis to be near her dad’s family. On a visit to a friend’s house, I tasted the most heavenly sourdough loaf, and suddenly, the sourdough god seemed to follow us everywhere.
Across the street from my therapist? A hip sourdough bakery. On the way to coffee? A sourdough hand-pie shop. Even our favorite boxed pasta turned out to be made of sourdough.
Meanwhile, my daughter developed a love for carbs: bread, croissants, pasta, pancakes, basically anything with flour. And I realized that if carbs were going to be a significant part of her life, I wanted them to be the healthiest they could be, with ingredients I could control. So, on Thanksgiving Day, Grace was born.
Grace is the name of my sourdough starter. She’s made of organic rye flour, whole wheat flour from a local miller, and spring water from Michigan. Like everything I care deeply about, she has a story, and her creation was unnecessarily overcomplicated.
Growing Grace has been a journey of trial, error, and a surprising amount of emotional investment. Measuring and following instructions have never been my strengths, so I turned to ChatGPT, my baking coach and confidante. With her help, I navigated starter ratios, feeding schedules, and, most importantly, what to do with the discard.
As a Vietnamese person, the thought of throwing anything away is almost scandalous. Discard became an opportunity rather than a waste. I’ve added it to pancakes, cookies, and dumplings, discovering that it not only reduces waste but also improves digestibility, flavor, nutrition, and texture. It’s a win-win, one of many unexpected joys in this journey.
Now, I bake almost every other day. The house smells of freshly baked goods, my daughter squeals in delight, and for a moment, everything feels whole. Sourdough, like parenting, requires patience, care, and a willingness to embrace imperfection. In fact, sourdough is not just like parenting, it has become a part of parenting. My daughter’s excitement for fresh bread, my commitment to nourishing her in the best ways I know how, and the ritual of keeping Grace alive have all intertwined into something much bigger than food.
What started as a practical solution has become a ritual that connects my past, present, and future. It ties me to my mother, who first introduced me to cooking and the magic of wild yeast. It nourishes my daughter, who reminds me daily to savor the simple things. And it grounds me, offering a quiet rhythm to life’s often chaotic cadence. Somehow through this process, I’ve discovered that maybe I’ve matured a little more. My mind has stilled a little more. Enough to find the act of measuring everything a meditation instead of an inconvenience.
Sourdough baking, like parenting, wasn’t something I sought out. It found me when I needed it most. What began as a craft has become so much more: a connection to those I love, a quiet meditation amidst chaos, and a way to anchor myself in the present while honoring the past and dreaming of the future.
Thank you, Grace. And thank you, ChatGPT. I can’t wait to see what we’ll create together next.
In 2023, after becoming pregnant with my daughter. I decided to wipe my Instagram clean and stepped away from the world. Now, as my daughter turns one, I feel ready to reengage. Follow me on Instagram as I rebuild my feed and my life.