We sat next to her for three mornings with a notebook. To “how much flour?” she answered “until it is right”. To “how long?” she shrugged and looked out of the window at the weather.
What we did learn: the starter lives in a jar nobody ever washes, the oven is heated with beech and nothing else, and the bread comes out when it smells like bread. Come in autumn and she will let you knead. Once.