The Creation of Mac Dough
It started in a freezing cold kitchen
on the fourth floor of a flat in Dundee,
with the River Tay just outside like it had something to say
and I wasn’t quite sure yet if I was listening.
I had always wanted to try making sourdough.
It had been one of those “one day” things.
I almost started it in Italy…
but I kept moving, and moving, and moving.
And sourdough doesn’t exactly thrive on instability.
Dundee, though?
Dundee made me sit still.
It was so cold I stayed bundled up half the time,
which, apparently, was the exact condition required
for me to finally begin.
No special tools.
No fancy setup.
Just flour that was already there,
a jar that was already there,
and water.
That was it.
I remember having a conversation before I started—
someone telling me about a woman who traveled with her starter
and had it explode in her suitcase mid-flight.
And I thought,
noted… we’ll cross that bridge later.
For now, we begin.
At first, I didn’t know what I was doing.
I was figuring out consistency in real time—
too thick, too thin, adjusting as I went.
If I’m being honest,
if I knew then what I know now,
I would’ve kept her thicker from the start.
Because a cold Scottish kitchen
and an overhydrated starter?
Not exactly a harmonious relationship.
But that’s part of it.
Because somewhere between feeding it, watching it, waiting on it…
it stopped feeling like a “starter”
and started feeling like something alive.
Temperamental. Responsive. Slightly dramatic.
And at some point,
it needed a name.
I was in Dundee.
Thinking about Crocodile Dundee.
Looking at a literal crock of dough sitting on my counter.
And just like that—
Croc-O-Dough Dundee was born.
Mac Dough, for short.
Because once something has a personality,
you don’t keep calling it “the starter.”
That would be rude.
She lived on my counter like a tiny, bubbling presence,
teaching me patience in a way that nothing else could.
Not forced patience. Not the kind where you’re waiting and annoyed.
The kind where you realize there’s nothing to rush.
You can’t force something alive to become ready before it’s ready.
You can only show up.
Feed it.
Pay attention.
And trust that something is happening
even when it looks like it isn’t.
And maybe that’s the part that stuck.
Because what started as flour and water
in a cold kitchen by the Tay
turned into something that mirrored back
how creation actually works.
Not rushed.
Not controlled.
But cultivated.
And once you see that,
you don’t unsee it.
Turns out,
it wasn’t just a starter I was growing.