Welcome! I’m Becky Rickett

Sourdough Afterglow began as my little escape during a time of loss. When my mother passed in 2023, I found myself turning to the simple act of mixing flour and water. I didn’t understand the sourdough starter process, the math, or even what a “gram” was—but I kept feeding my starter anyway. I wasn’t discouraged by the mold, the strange smells, or the countless failed attempts. I wasn’t chasing perfection; I was finding comfort in the act of trying. Again, again, and again.

Nurturing a living jar of goo—my sourdough starter—became my refuge, a quiet and grounding ritual in uncertain times. The simple act of mixing, waiting, and feeding this bubbling, unpredictable life form brought me comfort. If you’ve ever found healing in the kitchen, you might see a bit of your story in mine. Read more about my journey here.

As I spent 2024 chasing that perfect sourdough loaf, I also fell back in love with home cooking—just me, a pile of wholesome ingredients, a bit of a messy kitchen, and the freedom to give myself space in the moment to figure things out. No pressure, just fun.

When my best friend would come over, my husband—Mr. Squeeze, as I call him—would randomly announce his favorite meal, almost like a challenge. Of course, my bestie couldn’t resist. She’d roll up her sleeves, open the fridge, and take over my kitchen—moving with effortless rhythm, fully immersed yet deeply aware, like an artist lost in her craft. Giving her space, I’d watch in wonder. It was as if she wasn’t just cooking but channeling something greater, creating with an unspoken knowing. I never minded the mess; I gladly took on the role of sous chef, soaking up the energy of her creativity. We’d laugh, taste-test, and savor the process, knowing that cooking, much like life, is about the journey. And when it was all over, I was never happier to clean up the kitchen, feeling the love she had poured into every dish. Then, we’d wait anxiously for the ultimate moment of truth—Mr. Squeeze’s rating.

One of his ultimate seals of approval came in the form of an eyes-closed, “Mmmmm, that’s wonderful.” Then, without fail, my bestie would chime in, grinning and eager, “Alright, what’s the rating?” She hung on his every bite, waiting for the magic words—or a solid score. Meanwhile, I’d sneak a glance, trying to figure out if he was just playing her for another meal or if the legendary perfect score was actually real.

One evening, Mr. Squeeze randomly recalled a childhood memory of tomato soup with a little milk—simple, cozy, and comforting. My bestie’s eyes lit up. Without missing a beat, she rolled up her sleeves and got to work, slow-cooking tomatoes, onions, and a few secret touches to create the ultimate homemade version. The kitchen filled with the rich, nostalgic aroma as she stirred, tasted, and hoped she was onto something special.

Then came the moment of truth. Mr. Squeeze took a spoonful, his expression unreadable. My bestie and I held our breath. He closed his eyes, let out a deep sigh, and then…

“That’s a TEN!”

We looked at each other, eyes wide open, and blurted out in unison… “Taste it again!”

He slowly savored the spoonful, letting the flavors settle. Then, with absolute certainty, he confirmed—“TEN.

My best friend beamed, eyes shining like she’d just won Olympic gold. I couldn’t help but laugh—that deep, giddy kind of laughter that spills out when the impossible suddenly feels possible. Who knew the key to a perfect score wasn’t anything extravagant? Just a little love, a dash of nostalgia, and a really good bowl of tomato soup. (Recipe here.)

But once she headed home, I wanted nothing to do with a rating system. I just cooked for the joy of it, listening for that familiar “mmmm” after his first bite. That was all I needed. I’d smile, knowing my Mr. Squeeze was pleased.

And really, that’s what the afterglow is all about—the warmth that lingers long after the oven cools.

What started as my version of therapy—facing grief, sadness, and trying to find my footing after losing my mother—became something more. It became a way to reconnect with myself, to find beauty in small moments, and to embrace the messy, imperfect process of creating something from scratch. It reminded me that healing doesn’t happen all at once, but in quiet rituals, in laughter shared over a meal, and in the comfort of knowing that love lingers—just like the scent of freshly baked bread right out of a warm oven.