Amaris and the bread that took over

It started with one jar of flour and water sitting on the counter, being talked to daily like a pet.

Amaris didn't plan to become a baker. She planned to make one good loaf, impress herself, and move on with her life. That was several hundred loaves ago.

What started as a pandemic-era experiment turned into a full-blown obsession with wild fermentation — the kind where you start researching hydration ratios at 2am and wake up covered in flour without really remembering how it happened.

Feral Dough grew out of that obsession. The name felt right immediately. The bread wasn't polished or corporate. It was alive, unpredictable, and occasionally unhinged in the best way — just like the process of making it.

The first batches went to neighbors. Then neighbors told friends. Then friends started asking for specific flavors. The chocolate raspberry loaf caused a mild local incident. Nobody complained.

Now Feral Dough runs bake windows out of Chandler, Arizona — small batches, rotating menus, and a growing list of people who have deeply strong opinions about crust-to-crumb ratios. Amaris bakes every loaf herself, which means quantities are limited and sell out fast, which means you should probably just go ahead and order now.