It all started with my brother…

When visiting him in London, he casually pulled a perfect loaf of homemade sourdough out of the oven… crusty, airy, and so delicious. He made it look so damn easy. He handed me a jar of starter and some instructions to start my own sourdough journey here in New York. Naturally, I failed. The starter died. My sourdough dreams died with it.

Years later, I decided to try again. This time with a 100+ year-old Alaskan starter, which I fussed over like a newborn - feeding, watering, and guarding its temperature like a neurotic parent. I’ve kept that starter alive for six years now (yay me!). What once felt like an out of control science experiment has turned into something closer to hygge: a quiet ritual, a warm kitchen, …and into some pretty damn good loaves. (There, I said it.)

Along the way, we also found our Saltbox Cabin in the Catskills - 63 acres of woods, chickens, bees, and the occasional bear. For me, it was a return to what matters most, and to the kind of upbringing I had in Scandinavia: more nature than city, more sanity than scramble. I love the richness and hum of Brooklyn - the museums, the food, the concert halls - but it’s in the woods where I feel most at home. The cabin became our sanctuary, our reset button, and the perfect backdrop for doing slightly ridiculous things like this.

So here I am, turning carbs and chaos into the Lucky Bird Bakehouse. Because why not?!

Will it make me rich? Hell no… but it makes me happy.