Learning vs. Connecting

Where the Question Began
I have been journaling a lot lately about a challenge I didn’t quite expect to feel as deeply as I have. My new mixer. Even the decision to purchase it carried weight. I had written about my concerns before it ever arrived. Would I lose the integrity of my work? Would something shift in a way I couldn’t get back? Was I, in some way, cheating…not just myself, but the people I share my loaves with?

When It Fell Apart
This past week, I finally stepped into it. I had time in the kitchen, space to experiment, and what I thought was a clear understanding of what to do. I had done the research. I had watched the videos. I had convinced myself I was ready.

And then…everything fell flat.

No rise.
No oven spring.
No ear.

Just loaves that spread and baked into something unrecognizable as my own. Pancake flat.

Back to the Beginning
So I did what I have learned to do when something isn’t right. I went back. Not just to the recipe, but to the beginning. As if I were learning again for the first time, only this time with a mixer instead of my hands.

I spent an entire sleepless night searching. YouTube, Instagram, TikTok, the Estella website. I watched other bakers mix for twenty, sometimes thirty minutes. No explanation. No context. No understanding of their starter, their dough, their environment. Just timers and motion.

And I realized something in the quiet of that night…

I wasn’t finding answers.

The Turning Point
The next morning, I did something simple. I trusted myself.

I made one batch by hand. The way I always have. The way I know.
And I made another with the mixer.

Same starter.
Same recipe.
Same kitchen.

And I watched.

Not the clock.
Not the bowl.
The dough.

Every movement. Every change. Every nuance.

What I Discovered
All of those bakers I had studied? They were getting their results because of their process.

Not mine.

And somewhere along the way, I had drifted into that familiar place…
the quiet trap of comparison.

There is a fine line between learning from others and losing yourself in what they do. Between gathering knowledge and abandoning instinct.

I didn’t need their method.

I needed to understand my own.

My Process (With the Mixer)

This is what works for me. Not as a rule. Not as a formula. But as a reflection of how I stay connected to my dough, even with a machine.

Base Recipe (4 Loaves | 900g each)

• 2000 g flour

• 1400 g water

• 300 g starter

• 40 g salt

Scaling (3x Batch | 12 Loaves)

• 6000 g flour

• 4200 g water

• 900 g starter

• 120 g salt

Step-by-Step

1. Initial Mix
Combine all ingredients in the mixer.
Mix on low speed for 2–3 minutes.

The goal is not development.
Just incorporation.

The dough will look rough. That’s right.

2. Rest (20–30 minutes)
Let the dough sit.

This is where hydration begins.
This is where gluten starts forming without force.

3. Second Mix
Return to the mixer.
Mix on low for another 2–4 minutes.

Stop before it looks “done.”
This matters more than anything.

4. Transfer & Rest (20–30 minutes)
Move dough to bulk container.
Let it relax before touching it again.

5. Coil Folds (2–3 total)
Perform gentle coil folds every 30 minutes.

Not four.
Not by habit.

Only until the dough tells you it’s ready.

6. Bulk Fermentation
Let the dough rise undisturbed.

Watch for:

• slight rise

• bubbles forming

• a soft, pillowy feel

7. Pre-shape
Turn out gently.
Shape lightly.

8. Bench Rest (20–30 minutes)
Let the dough relax again.

9. Final Shape → Banneton
Shape with intention.
Build tension without force.

10. Short Rest (20–30 minutes)
Not an hour.
This was a key adjustment.

11. Final Stitch → Cold Proof
Gentle stitch.
Into the fridge.

What I Learned

I wasn’t trying to learn the mixer.

I was trying to stay connected to my dough.

And in doing that, I realized something I don’t want to forget:

The mixer is not the process.
It’s just a tool.

The process is still:

• observation

• patience

• restraint

• trust

What Stayed With Me

This experience didn’t take something away from me.

It gave something back.

A deeper understanding of how I work.
A reminder to trust what I feel, even when something new enters the picture.
And the quiet confidence that growth doesn’t require disconnection.

The mixer didn’t change my bread.

Because I didn’t let it change me.

I wasn’t trying to learn the mixer.
I was trying to stay connected to my dough.

And in the end, that made all the difference.

Warmly~
Kathy
Art of The Crumb

True Confessions From My Kitchen

When It All Unraveled

Yesterday was the first day I experienced what I can only describe as a complete disaster with my loaves.

I had a large order to prepare. Four jalapeño cheddar loaves and ten original sourdough loaves.

The jalapeño cheddar, I mixed by hand. It was a smaller batch and, truthfully, easier on my hands.

But the larger batch went into my new Estella mixer.

And that is where things went off the rails.

As my dad used to say…
“the lug nuts came off.”

And unravel it did.

That Feeling You Can’t Ignore

I knew the moment I took the dough out of the mixer and transferred it into the bins.

Something was off.

The dough was sticky.
Not cohesive.
It reacted differently.

But I kept going.

Thinking maybe I was imagining it.
Maybe I was overthinking.

But I wasn’t wrong.

Something was way off.

One Batch Told the Truth

The jalapeño cheddar loaves performed beautifully.

They responded to every stretch and fold, every coil fold, every inclusion just as they should.

They came together.
They held their structure.
They moved the way good dough moves.

I shaped them, let them rest, placed them into bannetons, and tucked them into the refrigerator for their overnight proof.

There was no question there.

The Other Batch

The other loaves…

That is where the unraveling continued.

I found myself in panic mode.

Questioning everything.

What did I do wrong?
What step did I miss?
What changed?

The Long Night

I spent the entire night searching for answers.

On the Estella website.
Watching videos.
Reading.
Trying to find the one thing I could point to and say…this is it.

There was no sleep.

Just questions.

The Morning After

This morning, the jalapeño cheddar loaves were exactly what they should be.

Beautiful.
Strong.
Right.

And the others?

They weren’t.

They weren’t recognizable as my bread.

Not the loaves I know how to make.
Not the loaves I would ever share.

So I threw them away.

What We Don’t Share

We don’t usually share those loaves.

The ones that don’t turn out.
The ones that don’t photograph well.
The ones that aren’t “worthy” of being posted.

There isn’t much space for that.

Unless, of course, I created a blooper account.

And I’m not sure anyone would follow me for that.

Why I Share It Here

But this space is different.

This space has always been different.

This is where I come when something needs to be said honestly.

This comes from hours of journaling.

From a practice I began three years ago, when I was broken, walking through the deepest grief and loss of my life.

Writing became part of my healing.
Part of my becoming.

And so this is where the truth goes.

Back to the Beginning

So here I am.

Back to the drawing board.

Letting go of what I cannot change.
Learning again.
Adjusting again.

Being willing to not have the answer.

Still Becoming

There is something humbling in this.

Something necessary.

A reminder that no matter how far we come, there is always more to learn.

More to understand.

More to surrender.

And so I begin again.

Still becoming.

Warmly,
Kathy
Art of The Crumb

Integrity Lives in Attention

The Sound of Rain Instead of Market

This weekend was supposed to be spent at Farmers Market.

But the rain came, steady and persistent, and after watching the forecast closely, I made the decision to stay home. There is always disappointment when plans shift, especially when you prepare all week for something, but if I am learning anything in this season of life, it is that not every redirection is a setback. Sometimes it is an invitation.

So instead of standing beneath a tent on Saturday morning, I stood in my kitchen.

Hour after hour.
Batch after batch.
Flour dust in the air.
Timers going off.
Dough tubs lining the counters.

This weekend, I have gone through well over one hundred pounds of dough.

Not filling orders.
Not baking for market.
Just learning.

The Transition

A few months ago, I made the decision to transition from hand mixing my dough to using an Estella commercial mixer.

That decision did not come easily to me.

Part of it was practical. Arthritis in my hands has made the physical process of hand mixing more difficult than it once was. There is stiffness now, especially after long production days, and I knew if I wanted to continue growing this little bakery, I would eventually need support.

But if I am honest, the hesitation went much deeper than that.

I was afraid the bread would change.

Not just the crumb or the texture or the fermentation, but the feeling of it. The integrity of it. The relationship to it.

When something is built slowly by hand, there is always a fear that introducing machinery somehow removes the soul from the process.

That fear kept me awake at night more than once.

Paying Attention

What I have discovered over these past weeks is that sourdough does not allow shortcuts simply because you buy a mixer.

In many ways, it demands even more attention.

The dough behaves differently now.
Fermentation begins earlier.
Strength develops faster.
Hydration changes.
Timing shifts.
Even the feel of the dough in my hands tells a different story than it once did.

So I have been studying it.

Watching closely.
Making adjustments.
Failing.
Trying again.

There have been loaves that spread too much.
Loaves that fermented too quickly.
Loaves that lacked the oven spring I was searching for.

And instead of becoming discouraged, I found myself becoming curious.

That is one of the greatest gifts sourdough has given me.
It teaches you to pay attention instead of panic.

What I Realized

Somewhere in the middle of all these batches, all these stretch and folds, all these quiet hours in my kitchen, I realized something important.

Integrity does not live in whether the dough is mixed by hand or by machine.

Integrity lives in attention.

It lives in caring enough to keep learning.
In refusing to cut corners.
In staying awake at night because the work matters to you.
In making another batch instead of settling.
In honoring the process enough to remain teachable.

The mixer did not remove my relationship with the bread.

If anything, it deepened it.

Because now I understand something I could not have understood before:
growth does not ask us to abandon what matters.
It asks us to carry it forward differently.

The Quiet Work

This weekend did not produce a market table full of bread.

But something meaningful still happened here.

There is a quieter kind of work taking place beneath the surface of all of this. Not just learning how to scale recipes or handle larger batches of dough, but learning how to grow without losing myself in the process.

I think that matters.

Not just in baking.
In life.

And maybe that is what this entire journey has been about all along.

Warmly~

Kathy

Art of The Crumb

What Sourdough Has Taught Me About Problem Solving

The Way I Used to Move Through Things

There was a time in my life when I believed I had to solve everything.

Every problem.
Every challenge.
Every moment of loss or uncertainty.

I felt responsible for making sense of it all, for finding the answer, for taking something complicated and resolving it into something neat and understandable, something I could place on a shelf and move past.

Maybe it is part of how I was raised. Maybe it is part of my nature. Maybe it came from the roles I held as a wife and a mother, always trying to steady what felt unsteady, always trying to make things right.

But that way of moving through life was not working.

Not in the way I wanted to feel. Not in the way I wanted to live.

It did not bring me peace.

A Different Way of Meeting What Comes

Now, I find myself approaching things differently.

Not perfectly. Not every time. But differently.

I greet challenges much like I make sourdough.

With patience.
With time.
With gratitude.

Not rushing to solve.
Not forcing an outcome.
But allowing something to unfold.

There is a quiet shift in that.

A willingness to stay present instead of immediately trying to fix.

What Sourdough Has Taught Me

Sourdough has taught me more than I ever expected.

It has taught me about life. About who I am. About faith. About grief.

It has shown me that not everything needs to be controlled in order to be understood.

That time matters.
That process matters.
That some things can only become what they are meant to be if we are willing to let them.

It has taught me how to move through life in a way that feels more aligned with who I am becoming.

The Questions That Don’t Have Easy Answers

There are still questions.

Practical ones.

The price of flour is going up.
The cost of everything is shifting.

Do I raise my prices?
Do I limit what I offer?

These are real considerations. Real decisions that come with building something.

And yet, I find myself pausing here too.

Because for me, this has never been about money.

Not at its core.

What I Saw at the Table

Last week at the market, I noticed a woman who kept coming back to my table.

She wanted a seeded loaf.

I could see it.

But she did not have enough money to buy it.

So I gave it to her.

I told her it was my gift. I told her, “next time.”

Next time, you can pay me.

Tears filled her eyes.

And in that moment, something became very clear to me.

What Matters Most

This is not just about bread.

It is about people.

It is about connection.

It is about creating something that extends beyond the transaction and into something that feels human and real and shared.

I thought about my father.

The way he lived. The way he gave. The way people still speak about him, not for what he had, but for how he showed up for others.

That is what stays.

That is what matters.

And I can see now how much of that lives in me.

How much of that is guiding what I am building, even when I am not consciously thinking about it.

What I Am Choosing

So for now, I am choosing not to raise my prices.

Not because I am unaware of what is happening around me.

But because I am paying attention to what is happening within me.

I am choosing to trust that there is a way to build this that does not lose sight of why I started.

I am choosing to make space for community loaves at my table.

To give when it feels right.

To stay open.

Not Everything Needs to Be Solved

I am learning that not every problem needs to be solved immediately.

Some things need to be sat with.

Some things need time.

Some things reveal themselves slowly, in the same way a dough rises, in its own time, in its own way.

And maybe the answer is not always something we create.

Maybe sometimes it is something we are willing to receive.

Still Learning

I am still learning.

Still navigating.

Still finding my way through something that continues to evolve in ways I did not plan.

But I know this.

I do not need to have all the answers today.

I just need to stay present.

To keep showing up.

To trust what is being placed in front of me.

And to believe that there is something good unfolding…even when I cannot yet see the full shape of it.

Warmly,
Kathy
Art of The Crumb

The Shape of Alignment

What I Thought It Would Feel Like

I have been thinking a lot about alignment lately.

What it means.
What it feels like.
How we know when we are in it.

For a long time, I think I believed alignment would feel steady. Grounded. Certain. Like standing on solid ground with a clear understanding of where I was going and how I would get there.

A sense of calm. A sense of knowing.

Something settled.

What It Actually Feels Like

But what I am experiencing right now feels very different.

There is movement.
There is growth.
There is something unfolding faster than I expected.

And if I am honest, there are moments where it feels overwhelming.

Not in a way that makes me want to walk away, but in a way that makes me pause and take a breath and ask myself if I am really ready for what is in front of me.

This was never part of a plan.

I never expected my life to move in this direction.

To be asked to let go of what once felt steady. To step into something that feels unfamiliar and new and, at times, bigger than I imagined I could hold.

And yet…here I am.

The Work of Shaping

There is something about shaping a loaf of bread that has been speaking to me in a new way.

The dough does not begin with structure.

It is soft.
Undefined.
Full of potential, but not yet formed.

And then, with time and attention, with patience and a steady hand, it begins to take shape.

Not forced.
Not rushed.

Guided.

There is a moment in that process where the dough resists slightly, where it does not quite know what it is becoming, and the only way forward is to stay with it.

To keep shaping.

To trust that it will come together.

Where I Find Myself

That is where I am right now.

In the shaping.

In the middle of something that is still becoming.

I am finding myself being stretched in ways I did not expect. Learning how to hold growth without pulling back from it. Learning how to stay present when things feel bigger than what I have known.

There are moments where I feel off center.

Moments where I question if I am doing this right.

Moments where I want to retreat into what feels familiar and manageable.

Finding Center When I Feel Off

And yet, each time I pause, each time I step back and take a breath, I find something waiting for me.

Not answers.

But a quiet return.

A reminder that I am not alone in this. That I am being guided, even when the path does not feel clear. That what is unfolding is not something I have to control, but something I am being asked to walk through with trust.

Faith has become the place I return to when I feel off center.

Not as a solution.

But as an anchor.

A Different Understanding

I am beginning to understand that alignment is not the absence of uncertainty.

It is not a perfectly mapped path or a life that feels easy to navigate.

Alignment may not feel like standing still at all.

It may feel like movement. Expansion. Being asked to grow into something you did not plan, but cannot ignore.

It may feel like standing in the middle of something unfamiliar and choosing to stay.

The Shape of It

Maybe alignment has a shape.

Not a fixed one.

Not something we arrive at and remain within.

But something that is formed over time.

Something that changes as we do.

Something that asks for our participation, our attention, our willingness to keep showing up even when we do not fully understand what we are becoming.

Still Becoming

So here I am.

In something new.
Something exciting.
Something overwhelming in the most unexpected way.

Learning how to stay.

Learning how to trust.

Learning how to find my center, even when I feel off.

And maybe that is what alignment really is.

Not a place we arrive.

But a process we are willing to remain in.

Warmly,
Kathy
Art of The Crumb

Finding My Stride

What Does That Even Mean

I have been thinking a lot lately about the phrase “finding my stride,” and if I am being honest, I am not entirely sure what it means.

It sounds like something we arrive at. A place where things settle, where the path becomes clear, where we finally feel steady in the direction we are moving.

But life has not shown me that.

Life moves, and just when we think we have found our footing, something shifts. A challenge, a loss, a moment we did not see coming, and suddenly we feel off course from what we thought we were building.

And it leaves me wondering…

Are we ever really off course at all?

The Course We Thought We Were On

There are so many things that shape the path we think we are on.

Loss.
Grief.
Unexpected turns that ask more of us than we feel prepared to give.

There are seasons that feel like they take us away from where we thought we were going, seasons that interrupt our plans and rearrange what we believed to be certain.

And yet, when I sit with it, I have to ask myself a harder question.

Was I ever fully in control of that direction to begin with?

Or was I following something shaped by my own expectations, my own ideas of how life should unfold?

There is a quiet tension there between ego and purpose.

Between what I think my life should look like and what it is actually becoming.

What Found Me Instead

Because if I look at my life honestly, sourdough did not come from a plan.

It found me.

In a season that asked me to slow down. In a season that required me to sit with discomfort, to be present, to let go of control in ways I had not practiced before.

And what I thought was just bread became something more.

It became a place to return to.

A rhythm that steadied me.

A reminder that not everything needs to be forced in order to grow.

Stepping Into the Unknown

Which brings me to yesterday.

My second Farmers Market.

I found myself questioning everything in the days leading up to it.

How much should I make.
What should I bring.
Would people respond to new offerings like jalapeño cheddar and seeded loaves.

This is not a restaurant where people order from a menu.

I set the menu.

And then I stand behind the table and trust that what I have made will be received.

There is a vulnerability in that.

A quiet wondering if what I am offering will meet the moment.

The Surprise of It All

Last weekend, I sold out.

An amazing surprise.

But this weekend felt different.

Last week was Mother’s Day and graduation for our local college. The town was full. There were visitors from everywhere. Arizona, Florida, North Carolina, and so many others. It felt like a moment that might not repeat itself.

So I wondered.

Would people come back.

What Actually Happened

And then something happened that I did not expect.

People came back.

And not only did they come back, they brought others with them.

Friends.
Family.
People they wanted to share this with.

There was a moment when a mother who had won a Mother’s Day raffle basket, one that included a beeswax bread bag I had donated, returned with two friends who each purchased bags of their own.

I nearly cried.

I stood there for a moment thinking…

Is this really happening.

What is happening here.

Because this felt like something more than a transaction.

It felt like something being shared.

What the Numbers Cannot Measure

I left the market with five regular loaves remaining.

Out of everything I brought.

Sixty four regular loaves.
Seventy two English muffins.
Eight baguettes.
Eighteen sandwich loaves.
Eight seeded.
Eight jalapeño cheddar.

Twenty five beeswax bread bags.

And I came home with five.

I was still selling at noon when I was meant to begin breaking down my booth, and if I had been allowed to stay, I would have continued.

The numbers matter.

But they are not the whole story.

Maybe This Is the Stride

So here I am, the day after my second market, already thinking about next Saturday.

Planning.
Adjusting.
Trying to listen more closely to what is unfolding.

And I find myself returning to that phrase again.

Finding my stride.

But maybe it is not about arriving at something steady and unchanging.

Maybe it is about learning how to move with what comes.

To trust that even when things shift, even when the path looks different than I imagined, I am not lost.

I am being led.

What I Am Learning Now

My work now is not to control every outcome.

It is to trust.

To plan with intention, but not from fear.

To pay attention to what is evolving rather than holding too tightly to what I think should happen.

To lean into my faith.

To trust God.
To trust myself.
To trust the process.

Still Becoming

Because maybe finding my stride is not a destination.

Maybe it is this.

Standing in the middle of something that is growing, something that is changing, something that is asking me to stretch.

And choosing to stay.

Choosing to trust.

Choosing to keep going.

Even when I do not have all the answers.

Warmly,
Kathy
Art of The Crumb

Becoming While Building

Where I Find Myself

Lately, I have been sitting with something that feels both new and familiar at the same time.

I am building something.

And at the very same time, I am trying to stay aligned with who I am.

There are moments when those two things feel like they fit together naturally, and there are moments when they feel like they are pulling in different directions, asking something of me that I do not yet fully understand.

And if I am honest…

this part has been hard.

What I Thought It Would Be

When I first began this journey, there was no thought of business.

There was no structure, no systems, no conversations about invoices or delivery days or boundaries.

There was just the bread.

The process.

The quiet rhythm of learning something new and letting it become part of my life.

It felt simple.

It felt pure.

What It Is Becoming

Now, something is growing.

There are expectations.
There are timelines.
There are people depending on me in ways that feel both meaningful and, at times, unfamiliar.

And with that comes something I did not fully anticipate.

The need to be clear.

To follow up.

To ask for what is already owed.

To say what works and what no longer does.

And I have felt myself hesitate in those moments.

Not because I do not understand what needs to be done.

But because I want to make sure that in doing those things…

I do not lose something of who I am.

The Quiet Question

There is a question that has been sitting just beneath the surface.

If I step more fully into this, will I still feel like me?

Will I still be the person who moves through the world with softness, with care, with intention?

Or will I become something else…

something more rigid, more transactional, more distant?

I have not had a clear answer.

Only the awareness that I am learning as I go.

What I Am Beginning to See

But lately, something has been shifting.

Very gently.

I am beginning to understand that clarity is not the opposite of kindness.

That structure is not the absence of heart.

That asking for what I need, or following through on what has already been agreed to, is not a departure from who I am.

It is a part of becoming more fully who I am.

What I Am Learning to Hold

I can be someone who:

Cares deeply.
Moves with intention.
Values connection.

And also someone who:

Sets boundaries.
Communicates clearly.
Honors the work I am putting into what I am building.

Those things are not in conflict.

Even if they feel that way sometimes.

Still Becoming

The truth is, I am still learning.

Still finding my footing in this space between creating and sustaining.

Still figuring out what it means to grow something without losing the parts of myself that matter most.

There is no perfect way to do this.

No moment where everything suddenly clicks into place.

There is only the willingness to keep showing up.

To keep adjusting.

To keep paying attention to what feels aligned and what does not.

What I Know Today

If there is one thing I know, it is this.

I do not have to wait until I feel fully formed to continue.

I do not have to have all the answers to move forward.

I only have to stay present in the process.

To keep building what is in front of me.

And to trust that who I am…

is not something I will lose.

It is something I am still becoming.

Warmly,
Kathy
Art of The Crumb

Learning to Lean

The Way Faith Grows

I have been thinking a lot about faith lately, and how it does not arrive all at once or fully formed, but instead grows over time through experience, through questioning, through moments of both clarity and uncertainty, and through a willingness to keep moving forward even when the path is not entirely visible.

Leaning into faith is not something we are born knowing how to do. It is something we learn, slowly and sometimes reluctantly, as life unfolds around us. There is no straight line, no single moment where everything suddenly makes sense. Instead, we weave our way through, sometimes with intention and sometimes simply doing the best we can with what we have been given, trusting that even when we feel uncertain, we are still being guided.

And I think, in some quiet and shared way, we are all seeking. We are all searching for something that fills us, something that brings a sense of love and joy and grace, something that connects us to one another and to something greater than ourselves.

What Bread Has Taught Me

For me, that learning has been unfolding in my kitchen.

I am learning to lean. I am learning to lean into my faith in a way that feels less like striving and more like trusting, less like controlling and more like allowing. It is becoming part of my daily life, not in a way that feels forced, but in a way that feels natural and steady, like something that has always been there waiting for me to notice.

Bread has taught me more than I ever expected. It has taught me about patience and letting go, about forgiving what does not go as planned, and about trusting a process that cannot be rushed. It has given me a kind of clarity and discernment that I did not have before, the ability to pause, to observe, and to respond rather than react.

When I think about this, I am reminded of the story of manna in the Bible, how it was provided daily, just enough for what was needed, no more and no less. There is something deeply comforting in that. The idea that what we need is given to us, often in quiet ways, often one day at a time, and that our role is simply to receive it and trust that it will be there again tomorrow.

A Season That Has Asked Much

This season of my life has been one of the most challenging I have ever walked through, and at the very same time, it has been one of the most rewarding.

I have carried a heavy heart in this season. There have been moments that have asked more of me than I thought I had to give, moments that have required me to keep going even when I felt uncertain, moments that have stretched both my body and my spirit in ways I did not expect.

And yet, within that, there has been growth.

Not always visible. Not always easy. But present.

The Lesson That Keeps Returning

The most profound lesson I am learning is this.

I am never alone.

Not in the quiet moments. Not in the difficult ones. Not in the spaces where I feel unsure or overwhelmed. There is a presence that remains steady, even when everything else feels like it is shifting.

God has provided me with everything I could ever want or need.

The challenge, the place where the real work happens, is in recognizing that. In being willing to see it. In allowing myself to trust that what is being given is enough.

The Wisdom to Know the Difference

There is a part of the Serenity Prayer that I have struggled with for a long time.

“God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
the courage to change the things I can,
and the wisdom to know the difference.”

It is that last line that has always felt just out of reach. The wisdom to know the difference.

And yet, lately, something has been shifting.

I am beginning to see more clearly. Not perfectly, not all at once, but in small moments, in quiet realizations, in the gentle understanding that comes when I am willing to pause and listen rather than push forward.

That wisdom does not arrive in a rush. It unfolds, slowly, over time, as I continue to lean.

Leaning and Learning

If I had to name this season of my life, I think that is what I would call it.

Leaning and learning.

Learning to trust what I cannot see. Learning to release what I cannot control. Learning to recognize what is being placed in front of me and to receive it with gratitude instead of resistance.

It is not a perfect process.

But it is a real one.

And for now, that is enough.

Warmly,
Kathy
Art of The Crumb

What I’m Learning Lately

Asking for a Different Kind of Help

Lately, I have been learning a lot about asking for help.

Not the kind of help we often think of.
Not a jump for a car battery.
Not changing a light bulb.
Not borrowing a cup of sugar.

Something deeper than that.

Help when I do not have the answers in my kitchen.

And that has not always come easily.

A Soft Place to Land

What I do know is this.

My bread community is a soft place to land.

And that has become an incredible source of support.

There is something about a group of people who understand the process. Who have lived it. Who have failed and learned and kept going.

It creates a space where you can ask questions without fear.

Where you can show up as you are.

When What Once Worked…Doesn’t

Lately, I have been struggling with consistency.

What worked six months ago has not been working the same way now.

The oven spring.
The crust.
The ear.

All the small details that come together to create a loaf that feels just right.

For weeks, I tried to solve it on my own.

Adjusting.
Tweaking.
Trying again.

And still, something was off.

The Moment I Reached Out

Finally, I reached out.

Fifteen thousand bakers. Many with far more experience than me. People who have paved the way for bakers like me.

And there I was…still very much learning.

Still very much a novice.

And yet, I asked.

What Came Back

What I received in return was more than I expected.

Suggestions, yes.

A new oven seal.
Adjusting steam.
Shifting temperatures.

But more than that…

there was kindness.

Every response offered with patience.
With understanding.
With grace.

No judgment.
No hesitation.

Just a willingness to help.

What This Is Really About

And somewhere in the middle of all of that, it became clear.

This is not just about bread.

It never really is.

It is about growth.

It is about letting go.

Maybe it is even a quiet struggle with ego.

I do not have that fully figured out yet.

I am still learning.

The Shape of Vulnerability

Being vulnerable is not easy.

For any of us.

To admit we do not know.
To ask for guidance.
To open ourselves to being seen in the middle of learning.

But how we navigate that vulnerability…

that is where something shifts.

That is where we begin to grow in ways we cannot always see right away.

What I Know Today

I do not have all the answers.

Not about bread.
Not about life.
Not about recovery.
Not about healing.
Not about forgiveness.

But I am beginning to understand something important.

We are not meant to have all the answers.

We are meant to keep learning.

To keep growing.

To keep showing up.

Where the Answers Are Found

And sometimes…

the answers are not found in big moments.

They are found quietly.

In the corners of our lives.

In the seasons where things are not quite working the way they used to.

In the moments when we finally ask for help.

That is where something begins to shift.

That is where the magic happens.

Warmly,
Kathy
Art of The Crumb

Holding Both

More Than I Expected

Yesterday was more than I expected.

I sold out in an hour and a half.

Even writing that feels hard to fully take in.

There was a steady line at the table. Conversations, introductions, familiar faces and new ones. People asking questions, sharing stories, choosing their loaves with intention.

And then, just like that…

it was all gone.

The bread.

And something else I did not expect.

Over twenty beeswax bread bags found their way home.

That part caught me off guard in the best way.

Because those bags were never meant to be just another offering.

They were something I made to honor the bread. To carry it well. To extend the care that begins in my kitchen into someone else’s home.

And to see them received that way…

it meant more than I can easily put into words.

The Moment After

When it was over, there was a quiet.

The kind that comes after something full.

I stood there for a moment, taking it in.

Grateful.

Humbled.

A little overwhelmed, if I am honest.

Because this is something I have been preparing for, thinking about, working toward.

And yet, when it arrived, it felt different than I imagined.

Not bigger.

Just deeper.

And Yet This Weekend Holds More

And yet, this weekend holds more than just that.

Because alongside all of this,

the market, the preparation, the fullness of what unfolded,

is Mother’s Day.

And that day carries many things.

For some, it is joyful.

For others, it is complicated. Quiet. Heavy in ways that are not always visible.

I am learning that both can exist at the same time.

Gratitude and ache.

Joy and longing.

Fullness and absence.

What I Have Come to Understand

There was a time when I might have tried to separate those things.

To keep one feeling in one place, and another somewhere else.

But life does not really work that way.

And neither does this work.

Because even in the midst of yesterday,

in the conversations, in the sharing, in the simple act of offering bread,

there was something deeper moving underneath it all.

Connection.

Presence.

A kind of quiet understanding that what we carry into a moment is just as real as what is happening around us.

What the Table Holds

I have always believed that the table holds more than what is placed on it.

It holds stories.

It holds relationships.

It holds what is spoken, and sometimes what is not.

Yesterday, I saw that again.

In the way people lingered.
In the way they shared.
In the way something as simple as bread made space for something more.

Holding Both

So today, I find myself holding both.

Gratitude for what unfolded yesterday.
And a quiet awareness of what this day means, in all of its layers.

Neither one taking away from the other.

Both simply present.

And maybe that is the lesson.

That life is not meant to be felt in just one way at a time.

That we are capable of holding joy and tenderness together.

That something can be full, even when it is not complete.

A Quiet Thank You

To those who came to the market,

thank you.

For showing up.
For supporting this work.
For allowing me to be part of your table, even in a small way.

And to those carrying something more quietly this weekend,

I am holding you in that, too.

What Remains

This work continues to teach me something I am only beginning to understand.

That what we create,

what we offer,

what we build with our hands,

is never separate from who we are.

It all comes with us.

And somehow, when we allow it, it all finds its place.

Warmly,
Kathy
Art of The Crumb

There Are No Accidents

When Seasons Begin to Overlap

Lately, I have been thinking a lot about timing.

How certain moments in life don’t just happen on their own, they seem to arrive alongside something else.

As I prepare for the Farmers Market, I find myself remembering my father more deeply.

The season of his passing.

And the two…
feel connected.

Not in a way I can fully explain.
But in a way I can feel.

Like a melody coming together, notes that were always meant to meet.

The Way the Day Began

This morning began the way my mornings have come to begin.

Quietly.
With gratitude.

Thank you, God, for another day.

But today felt different.

Because today, I woke up with a plan.

A clear one.

I could see my kitchen before I even stepped into it.

What would be measured first.
Which dough would be mixed and set aside.
What would rest overnight.
What would be baked first.
How each loaf would be cooled, packaged, and prepared.

How it would all come together.

How it would arrive at market.

Where everything would be placed.

There was a steadiness in it.

A sense of order that didn’t feel forced.

It felt…given.

The Question That Keeps Returning

And as I moved through those thoughts, one question kept returning:

Is this coincidence?

Or is something being woven together here?

Is this timing…
or is it purpose unfolding?

Because when I look at where I am right now, what I am building, what I am preparing for, and what I am being asked to step into,

I cannot separate it from what came before.

From who shaped me.
From what was placed in me long before I ever knew I would need it.

My Father

My father was my guy.

My beacon.
My True North.
My strength.
My hero.

He was a coach.

And not just in title.

In the way he lived.
In the way he led.
In the way he showed up for the people entrusted to him.

Over the years since his passing, I have heard the same thing again and again.

From former players.
From fellow coaches.
From colleagues.

“He taught me some of the most important lessons of my life.”

And they meant it.

You could hear it in their voices.

A Moment I Will Never Forget

Near the end of his life, some of his former players came to the hospital to say goodbye.

One of them shared a story.

He told my dad that he had been coaching his own son’s football team.

And throughout the season, he would tell stories about Coach V.

About the lessons he had learned.
About the way he had been coached.
About the kind of man my father was.

My dad had become a legend…
to a boy he had never even met.

And then he told him this.

They were in a game.
Down by a few points.

In a sideline huddle, his son looked at him and said:

“Dad…what would Coach V do?”

I will never forget the look on my father’s face.

For a moment…he was back on that field.

Back in it.

Seeing what his life had meant.

The color returned to his face, just for a moment.

It was brief.

But it was everything.

What Was Planted Early

My father was also a man of faith.

Quiet.
Steady.
Unwavering.

When my brother and I were young, he signed us up for Bible camp one summer.

At the time, I don’t think I understood what that meant.

But that was where I was first introduced to God.

Where I made the decision, at ten years old, to turn my life over.

A seed planted early.

One that would carry me through seasons I could not have imagined then.

What I Am Beginning to See

As I stand here now, preparing for this next chapter,

I can see it more clearly.

The discipline.
The structure.
The way I think through a process from beginning to end.

The way I show up.
The way I prepare.
The way I care about what I am building.

That didn’t start here.

That was given to me.

There Are No Accidents

I don’t believe this is random.

This timing.
This season.
This convergence of memory and movement.

I believe it is all connected.

That what was planted years ago is now being lived out in ways I am only beginning to understand.

That the lessons I watched, the love I was given, and the faith that was introduced to me so early,

have been quietly shaping me for this moment.

Not just to bake bread.

But to build something with intention.
To serve.
To show up.
To lead in my own way.

A Quiet Knowing

There is a peace that comes with that realization.

A quiet knowing that I am not starting from nothing.

That I am carrying something forward.

That the things that mattered then still matter now,

just expressed differently.

In a kitchen.
Through bread.
Across a table.

An Invitation

If you find yourself in a season where things feel like they are coming together in ways you didn’t plan,

pause for a moment.

There may be more meaning there than you realize.

Threads you cannot yet fully see.

Lessons that were planted long ago
beginning to take shape in the present.

For me, it feels clear:

There are no accidents.

Only moments that, over time, begin to reveal what they were always meant to become.

Warmly,
Kathy
Art of The Crumb

The Week That Holds Both

Where Yesterday Still Lives
Yesterday marked twenty years since my dad passed, and I carried that knowing with me from the moment I woke. There are dates that do not simply arrive and pass, they settle in, asking to be felt, asking to be honored. We chose to spend the day the way he would have loved most, outside, moving, breathing in the open air that always seemed to bring him back to himself.

We went on a hike, and as we walked, we talked about him, not just the loss, but the life he lived and what he gave to each of us. He believed in challenging himself, physically and mentally, not for the sake of achievement, but because he knew it strengthened something deeper. He found clarity there. He found his center.

And in some quiet way, I think we were all searching for that same sense of grounding as we walked.

What Found Me
Later in the day, as I began to prepare for the week ahead, I found myself in the garage, organizing what I will need for the upcoming bakes and for the farmers market. It was ordinary work, familiar in its rhythm, until it was not.

Tucked beneath a stack of old books was something I had not seen in years. My dad’s baby book.

I opened it, and there was my grandmother’s handwriting, carefully documenting the earliest days of his life, small details held with such care, preserved in a way that felt almost sacred. I stood there for a long moment, holding the beginning of his story while missing him at the other end of it.

There are times when something like this feels like more than coincidence. A quiet reminder. A gentle reassurance that love does not disappear. It finds its way back to us when we need it most.

Where This Week Begins
Today is Monday, and the emotions from yesterday have not faded. They have simply settled into the beginning of this week, which now holds its own kind of weight and anticipation.

The rhythm of my baking has shifted. Not randomly, but because of what lies ahead. Preparing for the farmers market has changed the structure of my days. Feeding times have moved. Bake days have adjusted. What once felt steady now asks for a different kind of attention.

And with that shift comes more than just baking. It is the gathering of everything needed to step outside of my kitchen and into a space that will exist, even if only for a few hours, as a reflection of this work. Tables, a tent, linens, crates, bags, signs, all of it becoming part of what I am building.

I felt the weight of it as I wrote it all down. Not in a way that overwhelmed me, but in a way that made me pause and recognize that this is becoming something more.

What This Season Is Teaching Me
I am learning that change is not something I naturally move toward with ease. There is a part of me that wants to hold onto what is familiar, what feels known and predictable.

But this season is asking something different of me. It is asking me to shift, to adjust, to trust what is unfolding even when I cannot yet see the full picture.

There was a time when this might have felt like too much. When the weight of change would have caused me to pull back. But that is not where I stand today.

Instead, I find myself leaning in. Not perfectly, not without moments of hesitation, but with a willingness that was not always there before.

What Remains
As I move into this week, I carry both things with me. The tenderness of yesterday and the anticipation of what is ahead.

My dad’s life, the way he moved through the world, the way he challenged himself, the way he sought clarity and strength, all of it remains. Not in the past, but in the way it continues to shape how I choose to live.

And maybe that is what I was reminded of most this weekend. That what we are given, the love, the lessons, the example, does not leave us. It becomes part of us.

Where I Stand Today
This week feels like a beginning. Not a sudden one, but one that has been building quietly over time. A threshold I am stepping toward with both reverence and anticipation.

I can feel the stretching. I can feel the learning. I can feel the invitation to become more than I was before.

And through it all, there is gratitude. Not just for what is ahead, but for everything that has brought me here.

Still grateful.

Still becoming.

Warmly~

Kathy
Art of The Crumb

A Week Before the Rise

Where the Day Begins

I woke this morning the way I have come to begin each day, quietly, before anything else has a chance to take hold, offering a simple prayer of gratitude, “thank you, God, for another day of sobriety,” and then continuing, not for things, but for what I have come to understand as true gifts, for His love, His guidance, the prayers that have been answered and even the ones that have not, because I have learned, over time, that what is withheld can carry as much grace as what is given.

The house was still, the rhythm familiar, letting Coop out, feeding him, pausing for a moment of thanks for another day with him, then coffee, scripture, my journal open in front of me, and as I began to plan the day ahead, it came to me, gently but unmistakably, that one week from today I will be preparing my bake for the farmers market, and in that realization, something in me shifted, and tears came from the quiet weight of knowing how long I have been preparing for this moment.

A Life That Unfolds in Layers

I found myself reflecting on the shape of a life, how we are all given a beginning that is untouched, a clean slate, and from there we move through the world, learning, loving, grieving, carrying joy and sorrow and everything in between, gathering experiences that at times feel defining, yet over time I have come to see that they are not what define me at all.

It is not the events themselves, but how I have responded to them, how I have allowed them to shape me, soften me, strengthen me, and perhaps, in ways I could not see at the time, prepare me.

And maybe that is what a life is, not a series of disconnected moments, but a steady unfolding, each piece laying the groundwork for something still to come.

What Remains Constant

There has been one constant through it all.

God.

I think back to when my father was diagnosed with cancer, when time suddenly felt fragile and uncertain, and I remember how instinctively I turned to Him, how each morning before I even stepped out of bed, I would ask for the strength to love my father through those days, to offer him what he had given me my entire life, unconditional love, steady and present, no matter what was ahead.

And in that season, my faith felt immediate, necessary, something I reached for because I needed it to carry me.

What I Have Come to Understand

What I see now, with more clarity than I had then, is that for a long time I only turned to God in moments of suffering, as if His presence was something reserved for hardship, something to lean on only when I felt I could not stand on my own.

That realization has stayed with me.

Because in the twenty years since that season, through divorce, loss, grief, and the slow and sometimes uncertain rebuilding of a life I could not have imagined for myself, something has changed, not all at once, but gradually, quietly, in the way I now begin each day.

Gratitude has become the starting place.

Not just for the joy, but for all of it.

For the pain that shaped me, the clarity that followed, the discernment that guides me now, for sobriety, for the life that has been rebuilt piece by piece, and above all, for Him.

The Meaning That Emerges

There are moments when I wonder if all of it has been leading here, not in a grand or final sense, but in the quiet way that purpose sometimes reveals itself, not as something we chase, but as something we grow into.

Maybe this is part of it.

Maybe sourdough, this work of tending, waiting, nurturing something that cannot be rushed, is exactly where I am meant to be, and maybe the bread I offer is more than bread, but a reflection of everything that has shaped me along the way.

I cannot say with certainty what the full meaning is, or where it all leads.

But I am beginning to trust that it matters.

All of it.

Where I Stand Today

All I know, here in this moment, is that I am grateful, not in a passing way, but in a way that feels rooted and steady, that I am mindful of what has been given and what has been carried, and that there is a quiet contentment in recognizing that I am still becoming.

And perhaps that is enough.

Warmly~

Kathy
Art of the Crumb

Learning the Rhythm

When the Work Begins to Change You

There is a moment in every craft when the tools begin to change, and with them, the way we understand the work itself.

For me, that moment arrived quietly, not with certainty or excitement, but with hesitation, as I stood in my kitchen learning how to work with my Estella 30 Qt Dough Mixer, a machine that promised efficiency and consistency, yet asked me, in return, to loosen my grip on what had always felt familiar and true.

For months, my hands had been my guide, sensing every shift in the dough, every subtle change in texture, every moment when the mixture transformed from separate ingredients into something alive, something responsive, something that spoke back if I was willing to listen, and so stepping away from that direct connection felt, at first, like a quiet loss.

What the Mixer Taught Me

What I did not expect was that the learning would not be about the machine at all, but about attention, and patience, and the willingness to trust a process that looked, on the surface, entirely different, yet beneath it all, asked for the same presence.

The dough came together faster, almost too fast, tightening before I was ready, leaving me questioning whether something was wrong, whether I had lost my touch, or whether the formula itself needed to change, and for a moment, I believed that the answer was simply to add more water, to adjust, to compensate for what felt unfamiliar.

And yet, as I paused, as I stepped back and allowed the dough to rest, I began to see what had always been true, that the work does not happen all at once, that time is an ingredient as essential as flour or water, and that the structure we seek cannot be rushed into existence, no matter how powerful the machine.

The Space Between Effort and Ease

There is a quiet transformation that happens in the resting, a softening that cannot be forced, a strengthening that unfolds without visible effort, and it was there, in that space between mixing and waiting, that I began to understand the rhythm of this new way of working.

Adding water after the rest, not to develop it further but simply to bring it together, felt less like a correction and more like a conversation, a response to what the dough was asking for rather than what I assumed it needed.

And in that small shift, everything changed.

Carrying Forward What Matters

I have not lost the connection I once had with my hands, nor have I replaced it with something mechanical or distant; instead, I have found that the connection simply looks different now, less immediate perhaps, but no less meaningful, and in some ways, even more intentional.

The mixer has not taken anything away from the process, but it has required me to refine my awareness, to listen in new ways, to trust that what I cannot feel directly can still be understood if I am willing to slow down and pay attention.

A Different Kind of Knowing

There is a kind of knowing that comes not from control, but from observation, from allowing the process to unfold and responding with care rather than urgency, and it is this kind of knowing that I find myself returning to again and again.

The rhythm is different now, but the work remains the same.

And perhaps that is the quiet truth at the heart of all of this—that it was never about the method at all, but about the willingness to stay present, to remain curious, and to trust that, with time, the work will reveal itself.

Warmly~

Kathy
Art of the Crumb

Two Weeks to Market

Trusting What Has Already Been Built

There is a different kind of energy in my kitchen these days.

May 9 is no longer something in the distance.

It’s close.

Close enough that it’s starting to show up in very real ways.

The Signs That It’s Happening

Emails are coming in from the Town of Clarksville.

UPS has been making regular stops at my door.

Boxes filled with things I once only imagined needing.

Table decor.
Signs.
Menus.
Custom bags and labels.

Each delivery feels like a small confirmation.

This is happening.

Not someday.

Now.

The Shift I Had to Make

With all of this coming together, there was one thing I knew I had to do.

And it made me more nervous than I expected.

I had to talk to my regular customers.

The ones who have been with me from the beginning.

The ones who have supported me through every stage of this.

The ones who have shown up with patience, kindness, and more grace than I could have asked for while I’ve been finding my way.

Fridays have always been my busiest day.

Fresh bread.
Muffins.
Treats for the weekend.

It’s a rhythm we’ve built together.

But now, Fridays need to become something else.

My bake day for market.

Which meant I needed to ask them to shift.

To change something that has been working.

And for some reason, that sat heavy with me.

The Conversation I Almost Overthought

Yesterday, with a stomach full of nerves, I reached out.

I explained what was changing.

I braced myself for hesitation.

For disappointment.

For at least a little resistance.

But that’s not what happened.

Not even close.

Grace, Again

Every single person responded the same way.

Of course.
Absolutely.
Whatever you need.
We can switch days.

Some even added, “at least until October,” with a kind of excitement that reminded me they are part of this too.

And just like that, the worry I had been carrying dissolved.

What I Was Really Afraid Of

It made me stop and think.

Why was I so nervous?

These are not just customers.

They are people I have come to know.

People I check in with.
People who check in with me.

Deliveries have become more than a transaction.

They have become connection.

Conversation.
Care.
A moment in the week where something real is shared.

I wasn’t afraid of changing a delivery day.

I think I was afraid of disrupting something meaningful.

But what I was reminded of is this:

When something is built on genuine connection, it doesn’t break that easily.

It adapts.

More Than I Could Have Imagined

There is something else that has been unfolding.

Something I didn’t expect.

Friends and family reaching out.

Offering to come.

To travel.

To stand beside me at the market.

To help.

People willing to get on a plane and show up for this small table I am setting up in Tennessee.

That kind of love is hard to put into words.

It is humbling.

It is overwhelming.

And it is something I don’t take lightly.

What I Am Learning Right Now

This season is teaching me something I seem to keep learning in different ways.

You don’t build something alone.

Even when it looks like you are.

There are always people holding pieces of it with you.

Encouraging you.
Supporting you.
Making space for you to grow into something new.

What I’m Taking With Me

Two weeks from now, I will be standing at the market.

And I will not be standing there by myself.

I will carry with me:

The customers who said yes without hesitation.
The conversations that built trust over time.
The friends and family who are showing up in ways I never expected.

All of it.

So for now, I keep preparing.

I keep receiving.

And I keep reminding myself:

You don’t have to hold all of this alone.

Warmly,
Kathy
Art of The Crumb

There Is No “I” in Sourdough

On Community, Generosity, and the Way We Rise Together

There is something I keep coming back to as this journey unfolds.

There is no “I” in sourdough.

Not really.

Because no matter how much time I spend alone in my kitchen, no matter how many loaves I mix, fold, and bake with my own hands, I am not doing this by myself.

Not even close.

The Kind of Community I Didn’t Expect

Somewhere along the way, I found myself in a private group of bakers.

Men and women running their own micro bakeries.
Working out of home kitchens.
Balancing life, business, and the rhythm of bread.

Many of them use the same oven I do. The Simply Bread Oven.

But what connects us is not the equipment.

It’s the willingness to share.

When I say these people have become like family to me, I am not exaggerating.

There is a level of humility, generosity, and grace in this group that continues to surprise me.

No competition.
No holding back.
No sense that someone else’s success takes anything away.

Just people showing up for one another.

The Ones Who Go First

There are always a few people in any space who quietly lead.

Not because they are trying to be seen.
But because they cannot help but give.

One of those people, for me, has been Alisha Fuller.

She offers her time so freely.

Hosting webinars.
Sharing her knowledge.
Answering questions with patience and care.

And not in a way that feels distant or technical.

In a way that feels human.

Approachable.
Encouraging.
Kind.

There is a steadiness in the way she shows up that makes you feel like you are not alone in figuring this out.

Like someone has already walked the path and is willing to turn back and guide you.

The Small Things That Aren’t Small

Recently, someone in the group asked a simple question.

English muffins.

Many of us use molds when we bake them. I do the same when I make Bim’s English muffins.

And if you’ve worked with molds, you know what can happen.

The dough expands.
It presses against the sides.
And sometimes, when you go to remove the finished muffin, it sticks.

It tears.

Not ruined.
But not quite what you hoped for.

So the question was asked.

And almost immediately, Alisha responded.

Softened butter inside the molds before baking.

That was it.

Simple.
Obvious, once you hear it.
And something I had never thought to do.

Apparently, I wasn’t the only one.

Why This Matters

It would be easy to dismiss something like that.

Just a tip.
Just a small adjustment.

But it is more than that.

It is someone taking a moment to make the process easier for someone else.

It is someone choosing to share what they know instead of holding onto it.

It is generosity, in its simplest form.

And when you see that over and over again, something shifts.

You begin to understand that this work was never meant to be done alone.

The Kind of Baker I Hope to Be

I think about this often.

The kind of person I am becoming in this space.

Not just in skill.

But in spirit.

Because baking teaches you a lot.

But community teaches you something just as important.

How to give.
How to support.
How to show up for someone else’s learning the way someone once showed up for yours.

I am still learning.

Still asking questions.
Still making mistakes.
Still figuring things out one loaf at a time.

But I carry these moments with me.

And I hope, in time, to become someone who does the same.

Someone who answers the question.
Someone who shares the tip.
Someone who makes the path just a little easier for the next baker.

Closing Reflection

There is no “I” in sourdough.

There is only us.

Hands learning together.
Mistakes shared openly.
Knowledge passed freely.

And something beautiful that happens when we choose to rise together instead of alone.

Warmly,
Kathy
Art of The Crumb

The Quiet Reach of This Work

Healing Out Loud and the People It Finds

There is something I have been noticing lately.

A quiet kind of reach.

Not loud.
Not viral.
Not measured in numbers that flash across a screen.

But something deeper.

The Messages That Find Their Way In

Over the past month, I have started receiving more private messages.

From other bakers.
From people I have never met.
From accounts that, at first glance, look just like mine.

Almost every message carries the same thread.

Thank you.
Thank you for saying what I have been thinking.
Thank you for putting words to something I haven’t been able to say out loud.

That kind of message lands differently.

Because it tells me this is not just about bread.

The One That Stayed With Me

One message settled in and stayed.

A message from someone I’ve never met, from another country.

She shared that she had been in a season of grief and loss. A place where everything felt heavy. A place where moving forward didn’t feel possible.

Her therapist suggested something simple.

Try something new.
Something you’ve never done before.
Something that asks something of you.

She chose sourdough.

And over time, she began to feel something shift.

Not all at once.
Not dramatically.

But slowly.

She felt lighter.
More open.
More connected.

Where she had once felt closed, something began to soften.

When I read her words, I sat with them for a while.

Because I understood exactly what she meant.

More Than Bread

There is something about this process.

The rhythm.
The waiting.
The presence it requires.

It draws you in.

It gives your hands something to do while your mind begins to quiet.

And in that space, something begins to change.

Not just the dough.

You.

The Quiet Visitors

I have also been paying attention to something else.

The visitors to my website.

The analytics.

The small, steady trail of people who come, read, and come back again.

I see the locations.

Some local.
Some from across the country.
Some from places I have never been.

And then there are the ones that feel… familiar.

The ones that return often.

The ones that linger.

I don’t always know who is on the other side of the screen.

But I feel the presence of it.

People showing up.

Reading.

Returning.

What It Means to Be Seen Without Knowing

There is something both humbling and tender about that.

To write something from your own life…
from your own healing…
and to know it is landing somewhere.

Even quietly.

Even anonymously.

It reminds me that we don’t always know who we are reaching.

We don’t always see the full picture.

But that doesn’t mean it isn’t happening.

Healing Out Loud

I have always believed this.

Healing out loud has a way of circling back.

When I speak honestly about my own experience, it doesn’t just help someone else.

It helps me.

It keeps me grounded.
It keeps me accountable.
It keeps me connected to what is real.

And when someone reaches out and says, “I needed that,” it becomes something shared.

Not my story.

Not their story.

Something in between.

A Space That Found Its Way

This space was never meant to be anything grand.

Just a place to write.
To reflect.
To make sense of what I’ve lived and what I am still learning.

And yet, it is finding people.

In ways I didn’t plan.

In ways I couldn’t have predicted.

An Invitation

If you have ever wondered whether your story matters…

It does.

If you have ever felt the pull to share something honestly…

Do it.

You may never know exactly who it reaches.

But sometimes, that is not the point.

Sometimes the point is simply this:

To speak what is true.
To live what is real.
To trust that it will find who it is meant to find.

And to keep going.

Warmly,
Kathy
Art of The Crumb

Overthinking, Sourdough, and Learning to Move Forward

When the Mind Won’t Let Go

There was a time when my mind felt like it had no off switch.

When I first got sober, I thought the hardest part would be not drinking. And in many ways, it was. But what I wasn’t prepared for was what came after.

The thinking.

The replaying.

The constant loop of looking back over my life and asking the same questions again and again.

Why did I do that.
How did I let it get that far.
Who did I hurt.
What would have been different if I had made other choices.

It wasn’t reflection. It was rumination.

And it kept me stuck.

The Loop That Keeps You Standing Still

Overthinking has a way of disguising itself as responsibility.

It feels like you are trying to understand.
Trying to take ownership.
Trying to make sense of what happened.

But there is a point where it shifts.

It stops being helpful and starts becoming a loop.

The same thoughts.
The same regret.
The same conclusions that lead nowhere new.

And while your mind is busy circling the past, your life is standing still in the present.

That loop can quietly block everything.

Healing.
Growth.
Peace.
Forward movement.

Even freedom.

Responsibility Without Self-Punishment

Sobriety taught me something I had to learn slowly.

Taking responsibility does not require self-punishment.

Yes, I had to look honestly at my life.
Yes, I had to acknowledge the ways I showed up and the ways I didn’t.
Yes, I had to make amends where I could.

But I also had to learn when to stop.

When to stop replaying.
When to stop trying to rewrite what cannot be rewritten.
When to stop using my past as evidence against myself.

Because there is a difference between accountability and attachment.

One moves you forward.

The other keeps you bound.

What Sourdough Taught Me About Letting Go

I did not expect sourdough to help me with this.

But it did.

Because sourdough does not live in the past.

It lives in the present.

The dough in front of you does not care about yesterday’s loaf.
It does not respond to regret.
It responds to what you do now.

The temperature of the room.
The feel of the dough.
The timing of your folds.

It asks for attention.

Not overthinking.
Not control.
Just presence.

And slowly, standing at my counter, I began to understand something.

I could not think my way into healing.

I had to live my way into it.

Learning to Stay in the Now

Overthinking always pulls you out of the present.

Into the past.
Into imagined futures.
Into stories that have already been written or have not happened yet.

Sourdough brought me back.

Back to my hands.
Back to my breath.
Back to what was actually in front of me.

Feed the starter.
Mix the dough.
Wait.
Fold.
Wait again.

There is no rushing it.

There is no overanalyzing your way through it.

You participate.

You respond.

You trust.

And in that rhythm, something begins to quiet.

Forgiveness Is Not a Thought Process

For a long time, I thought forgiveness was something I had to figure out.

If I just thought about it enough, understood it deeply enough, maybe I could arrive at it.

But forgiveness is not something you think your way into.

It is something you practice.

It is something you choose, over and over again.

Sometimes without feeling it right away.

Sometimes without full resolution.

But with a willingness to release your grip on what has already passed.

Sourdough showed me that too.

You cannot hold onto every stage of the process.

You have to let it move.

Let it rest.
Let it rise.
Let it become something new.

Faith and the Space Between

There is a space in sourdough that cannot be controlled.

The waiting.

The unseen transformation.

You do your part, and then you step back.

Faith lives in that space.

Not certainty.
Not control.
Faith.

Sobriety asked that of me.

Life asked that of me.

And over time, I began to trust that not everything had to be solved in my mind.

Some things had to be placed in God’s hands.

Find Your Sourdough

There is a reason I say this.

Find your sourdough.

Not necessarily bread.

But the thing that brings you into the present.

The thing that requires your hands, your attention, your willingness to show up.

The thing that interrupts the loop.

For me, it was this.

Flour.
Water.
Salt.
Time.

For you, it may be something else.

But it matters.

Because overthinking thrives in stillness without direction.

It loses its grip when you engage with something real.

Something grounding.

Something that asks you to participate in your own becoming.

Moving Forward

I still catch myself sometimes.

Still slipping into old patterns of thinking.

But now I recognize it sooner.

And instead of staying there, I come back.

Back to the present.
Back to the work.
Back to what is mine to do today.

Because healing is not found in replaying the past.

It is found in how you choose to live now.

Closing Reflection

You cannot think your way into a different life.

But you can live your way into one.

One choice.
One moment.
One small act of showing up at a time.

And sometimes, that is where everything begins again.

Warmly,
Kathy
Art of The Crumb

Going Back to Move Forward

Returning
Last Friday, I returned to where this all began.

It had been a few months.

The holidays.
Snow and ice storms.
A brief illness.
Travel.

Life had created a pause.

But something in me knew it was time to go back.

The Beginning of Something I Didn’t Yet Understand
Long before there were markets…
Before signs and tents…
Before any of this felt real in the way it does now…

There was Manna Cafe.

There was bread made in my kitchen, placed into my car, and driven to a place where it would be given freely to those who needed it.

No expectations.
No transactions.
Just offering.

At the time, I did not fully understand what was unfolding.

I only knew that it felt right.

Why We Go Back
Sometimes, in the middle of building something new, we are called back to where we started.

Not to stay.
But to remember.

To reconnect with the reason we began in the first place.

To make sure that as things grow, we do not lose what matters most.

I never want to lose that.

What It Gives Me
There is a feeling I get when I leave.

It’s quiet.

But it stays with me.

Sitting in my car after delivering something I have made with my own hands, knowing it will nourish someone else.

It is one of the purest parts of this entire journey.

Nothing added.
Nothing taken away.

Just giving.

What I Saw
They were happy to see me.

That alone would have been enough.

But as I stood there, something else caught my attention.

The warehouse.

Where there were once stacks upon stacks of inventory… shelves filled and overflowing…

It was almost empty.

I stood there for a moment, taking that in.

What Is Changing
There is something happening right now.

We can feel it, even if we cannot fully name it.

The economy is shifting.
Resources are tightening.
And when that happens, people feel it.

Families feel it.
Communities feel it.

Places like this feel it first.

And most.

What It Stirred in Me
I left that day with more than I brought.

Not physically.

But in understanding.

A reminder that what we are building in our own lives exists alongside what others are carrying.

That while we are growing, creating, becoming…

There are people simply trying to get through the day.

That awareness matters.

What We Can Do
This is not about doing something grand.

It does not have to be big.

It does not have to be perfect.

But it does ask something of us.

To pay attention.
To look around.
To notice what is changing.

And then, in whatever way we can…

To show up.

A small offering.
A little time.
A willingness to step outside of ourselves.

It all matters.

More than we think.

Holding Both
I am in a season of building something new.

Of stepping forward.
Of allowing my work to be seen.

And I am also being reminded not to lose sight of where it all began.

Of the part of this that is not about me at all.

Both can exist at the same time.

Both should exist at the same time.

Warmly,
Kathy
Art of The Crumb

Woven Into This Story

The Moment It Became Real
There are moments along this journey where something shifts.

Not in a loud or dramatic way, but in a quiet recognition that what has been built in the unseen is beginning to take form.

The tent arrived.
The banners.
The table covers.

I stood there for a long time, taking it in.

My name.
My work.
Something that once lived only in my kitchen now had a place to stand in the world.

It felt real in a way I had not yet experienced.

And almost immediately, my thoughts turned to her.

A Story That Began Before Us
Katherine is one of my closest friends.

But even that does not fully capture it.

She is more like a sister to me.

Our connection did not begin with us. It began with our mothers.

Katherine is the daughter of one of my mom’s dearest friends. Their friendship came long before either of us were here, and somehow, years later, it found its way to us.

And then, in a way that has always felt quietly significant, they both chose the same name for their daughters.

Katherine.

It is a simple detail on the surface.

But it has never felt small to me.

There is something about that kind of shared beginning that feels intentional, even if it cannot be explained.

As if our lives were always meant to intersect in this way.

Who She Has Been to Me
Katherine owns a company that designs and creates tents, banners, and signage.

She is incredibly talented at what she does.

But what she has given me in this season goes far beyond that.

She has been steady.
Encouraging.
Present.

She saw what I was building, even when it was still taking shape in my own hands.

She believed in it.
In me.

And then she took that belief and turned it into something tangible.

Something I can stand under.
Something I can share with others.
Something that holds space for all of the quiet work that came before it.

More Than What We See
It would be easy to look at the tent, the banners, the table covers, and see them simply as pieces of a business.

But that is not what they are to me.

They are a reflection of friendship.
Of support.
Of being held up in a season that has asked a great deal of me.

They represent the truth that none of us build anything entirely on our own.

There are always people woven into the story.

People who show up.
People who offer their gifts.
People who stand beside us when we are still finding our footing.

The Hands That Hold Us
So much of what I share comes from the quiet work done in my kitchen.

The flour.
The dough.
The long hours that no one sees.

But this… this is a reminder that there are hands beyond my own that have helped bring this to life.

Hands that have supported me.
Encouraged me.
Made space for this dream to grow.

And when I stand at the market under that tent, I will know that it is not just my name that is there.

It is a story.

A history.
A friendship.
A kind of love that shows up and says, I see you. I believe in you. I am here.

And somehow, that makes it all feel even more real.

Warmly,
Kathy
Art of The Crumb