Becoming “The Bread Lady”: Counting Blessings, Not Loaves
Are You the Bread Lady
It still surprises me how often the most important moments in my life happen in the most ordinary places.
This week, I pulled up to make a delivery and saw something I had never quite seen before. People were lined up, waiting to buy bread. My bread. I got out of the car with a crate in my arms, hair probably a little wild from the oven heat, and someone looked up and asked with a smile, “Are you the bread lady?”
I felt the words land in my chest.
Two women who were already there started talking about my loaves. They went on and on about the flavor, the texture, what they had made with them, how their families loved the bread. I stood there listening, cheeks warm, eyes welling up. Not because they were complimenting me, but because something I made in my quiet kitchen was truly touching their lives.
For so many years I did not know who I was anymore. I was a wife, then not. I was a full time mom, then an empty nester. I was a woman in recovery starting over in her sixties. I never imagined that one day I would be known, in the sweetest way, as “the bread lady.” It felt like God’s little wink, a gentle way of saying, “See, I can still write new names over you.”
The Bread Angel at Manna Café
On the days I bring loaves to Manna Café, I walk in with flour on my shirt and bags in my hands, and someone always calls out, “The bread angel is here.”
I am not an angel. I am a very human woman with a very human story. But every time I hear those words, I feel my eyes sting. Because I remember the day, sitting in traffic, when I cried out, “God, what do you want of me,” and glanced up to see the sign for Manna Café. I remember how lost I felt then, and how baking for them became a way to put my hands to work when my heart did not know what else to do.
To have them greet me this way is a reminder that small offerings matter. A few loaves on a pantry table. A basket at a community dinner. Simple bread, sliced and placed on plates, eaten by people who may not know my name but can feel the care in what they are being given.
I do not take a single “bread angel” comment for granted. I hear it as “God is using you, keep going.”
When the Neighborhood Starts Knocking
When I told my neighbors that I would be leaving town for a much needed trip to California, the messages started pouring in.
“Can I get a loaf before you go.”
“Do you have room for one more order.”
“I need to stock up while you are gone.”
My phone lit up with DMs and texts. People were not just buying bread. They were trying to make sure they did not have to go without it while I was away. I baked as much as I could before leaving, filling my porch, my car, and my heart.
There was a time not very long ago when I felt invisible. When I wondered if anyone would notice if I slipped quietly out of the room. Now my neighbors watch for my posts and listen for the sound of my car in the driveway, because it might mean a fresh loaf has arrived.
I am not saying this to brag. I am saying it because I am counting blessings.
Counting Blessings, Not Loaves
I think often about the girl I once was in California, learning to sew and bake through 4‑H, not knowing how those simple skills would one day carry me. I think about the woman I became in Connecticut, feeding a family of six at a long table, never imagining that table would one day change. I think about the version of me who arrived in Tennessee tender and tired, wondering if there was anything left for her to offer.
Now I see myself in Clarksville, standing beside crates of sourdough, being called “bread lady” and “bread angel,” and I feel nothing but gratitude.
For each person who lines up for a loaf.
For each neighbor who messages before I go out of town.
For each staff member at Manna Café who smiles when I walk in.
For each quiet kitchen where my bread is sliced and shared.
It is easy in this world to measure success by numbers, followers, or sales totals. I have done that at times. But the older I get, the more I realize the real success is connection. The real wealth is in being woven into the daily lives of people around you in a way that brings comfort and nourishment.
So I am counting blessings, not loaves.
Every time someone calls me the bread lady, I hear “You are needed here.”
Every time someone calls me the bread angel, I hear “You are being used for good.”
Every time an order comes in because someone heard from a friend, I hear “You are not invisible.”
This little bakery, born from grief and starter, has become a bridge between my heart and this town. For that, I am deeply, quietly thankful.
Warmly,
Kathy
Art of The Crumb
Sourdough, Inflammation, and Me: A Baker’s Look at Food as Medicine
A Baker, Not a Doctor
I want to begin with something important.
I am not a doctor.
I am not a registered dietitian or medical professional.
I am a woman in her sixties who found her way back to life and faith through flour, water, salt, and time. I am a home baker who listens closely to people’s stories and pays attention to how food makes us feel.
What I share here is not medical advice. It is simply my experience as a baker who is curious about the health benefits of long‑fermented sourdough and who has started reading what the science is beginning to say.
Please talk with your healthcare provider before making any decisions about your health, especially if you have medical conditions, allergies, or specific dietary needs.
What I Hear at the Table
Over the past year, I have lost count of how many times someone has said to me:
“I can’t eat most bread, but your sourdough feels different.”
“I usually bloat with bread, but this doesn’t bother me as much.”
“I thought I had to give up bread, and now I can enjoy it again.”
I have noticed some of the same things in my own life. Long‑fermented sourdough seems gentler on my body than many store‑bought loaves. That does not mean sourdough is safe or right for everyone. It does not erase gluten sensitivities or celiac disease. But it has made me curious.
So I started reading.
What the Research Is Starting to Say
Recently, I came across a scientific review article available through the National Institutes of Health (NIH) database. It was published in 2025 in the Journal of Inflammation Research and explored how sourdough fermentation may relate to inflammation and gut health.
You can read it here if you like digging into the details:
https://pmc.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/articles/PMC11978714/
The authors looked at existing studies and suggested that long fermentation and specific lactic acid bacteria in sourdough can change certain compounds in wheat. These changes may affect how our bodies respond, including in ways that could be relevant to inflammation and the gut. They are careful to say that more research is needed. It is not a magic fix. But it is interesting.
Around the same time, I started following the work of Dr. William Li, a physician who writes and speaks about “food as medicine.” In one of his overviews, he talks about how certain foods and food preparations can support the body’s natural defense systems: immunity, blood vessels, the microbiome, and more.
You can read his overview here:
https://drwilliamli.com/an-overview-of-food-as-medicine-to-fight-disease/
He does not focus only on sourdough, but his work supports an idea that resonates with me deeply. The way we prepare food matters. Slow, traditional methods, whole ingredients, and fermentation are not just “old‑fashioned.” They may, in some cases, be kinder to our bodies.
Again, I am not qualified to interpret his work as a professional. I am just a baker who finds it encouraging that thoughtful people in medicine are paying attention to what many of us notice day to day in our kitchens.
What I Notice in My Own Kitchen
Science is important. So is lived experience.
In my kitchen, I work with long fermentation. That means the dough rests for many hours, giving the wild yeast and lactic acid bacteria time to do their work. During that time, they change the structure of the dough in ways we can taste and feel:
The flavor deepens.
The texture becomes more complex.
The bread often keeps longer without added preservatives.
Some researchers are suggesting that this fermentation may also affect things like gluten structure, FODMAP content, and bioavailability of certain nutrients. The 2025 review article hints at these possibilities. Dr. Li’s work on food as medicine supports the idea that food can play a real role in how we feel and how our bodies function.
In my life and in the lives of some of my customers, long‑fermented sourdough seems to be easier to live with than many fast‑made breads. That does not mean it is a cure. It does not mean it will help everyone. But it is enough to keep my curiosity awake and my commitment to slow methods strong.
Why This Matters to Me as a Baker
I care about this for a simple reason. I do not just want to make bread that looks pretty on a shelf. I want to bake bread that honors the bodies and lives of the people who eat it.
Knowing that there is early research suggesting possible benefits of sourdough fermentation encourages me in what I am already doing:
Using long, natural fermentation
Choosing high‑quality flours and ingredients
Avoiding unnecessary additives
Listening to how people feel after they eat my bread
I will always leave diagnosis and treatment to professionals. But inside my little circle of responsibility, I can choose to bake in a way that aligns with what we are slowly learning about food and health.
A Gentle Invitation
If you are interested in this topic, I encourage you to:
Read the Journal of Inflammation Research article for yourself
Explore some of Dr. William Li’s writing and talks
Pay attention to how different breads and foods make you feel
Speak with your doctor or nutrition professional if you have questions about what is right for your body
I am not here to make health claims. I am here as a baker who believes that food can be one part of a gentler, more intentional way of living in our bodies. Sourdough has been that for me. It has been a tool for healing, not just emotionally and spiritually, but physically as well.
I will keep reading. I will keep baking. I will keep listening to your stories and my own. And I will keep doing my best to make bread that nourishes more than just hunger.
Warmly,
Kathy
Art of The Crumb
Borrowed Recipes, Shared Tables: What Sourdough English Muffins Taught Me About Community
Learning From Other Hands
Most of the recipes I bake now were born in my own kitchen. They came from years of trial and error, stained notebooks, and more than a few loaves that ended up as croutons. But not everything began with me. Some of my favorite bakes started in someone else’s bowl, in someone else’s hands.
Our sourdough English muffins are one of those.
The recipe that has quickly become my most requested item did not fall from the sky onto my counter. It came from another baker. Her name is Bim, and she shares her knowledge and her recipes with a generosity that feels rare and beautiful in a world that often clings tightly to its secrets.
I printed her recipe, read through her notes, and walked right back into the role of beginner.
The Humility of Starting With Someone Else’s Recipe
As bakers, it is easy to feel we must invent everything ourselves. That “real” artistry comes only from original creations. But that is not how bread, or tradition, actually works.
Almost everything we bake comes from somewhere. A grandmother’s card file. A neighbor’s scribbled note. A recipe shared across a counter after church. A blog post from a stranger who took the time to write it all down.
When I started working with Bim’s English muffin recipe, I burned a few. I underbaked a few. I overproofed some and squeezed others into pans that were a little too crowded. I took notes on what worked in my oven, in my climate, with my starter. I asked, “What if I adjust the fermentation here?” and “What happens if I change the heat just a bit?”
Slowly, that borrowed recipe began to feel at home in my kitchen. It carried Bim’s wisdom and structure, but it also started to hold my own rhythms and preferences. It became something shared, not stolen. A conversation between two bakers who may never knead dough in the same room, yet are still working together.
The Generosity of Bakers Who Share
I am deeply grateful for bakers like Bim who open their notebooks and say, “Here, try this.” They are not afraid that someone else’s success will diminish their own. Instead, they understand that good bread is meant to travel. It is meant to grow.
Their sharing allows more people to taste something wonderful. It allows more homes to fill with the smell of warm dough. It invites more tables to hold something that was made with care.
In my own journey, this kind of generosity has been a lifeline. When sourdough first found me in a season of grief and rebuilding, I learned from strangers on the internet as much as from my own experiments. People I had never met were willing to explain, to troubleshoot, to offer recipes and methods that had taken them years to refine.
They gave it away so that someone like me could begin again.
Making It My Own, Without Making It Mine Alone
Over time, I have adjusted Bim’s recipe so it works in my space. I have played with timing, handling, and little touches that suit my starter and schedule. Customers have tasted them and asked for more. Many have said, “These are the best English muffins I’ve ever had.”
That humbles me. It also reminds me to say, out loud and clearly, that I did not create this from nothing. I am standing on another baker’s shoulders.
I believe there is a way to honor both parts. I can be proud of the care I take in mixing, fermenting, shaping, and cooking each muffin. I can also be honest about where the bones of the recipe began, and give thanks for the one who first did the hard work of writing and testing it.
Good things grow when we refuse to hoard them.
The Table Is Big Enough for All of Us
Bread has always been a communal food. It is shared, broken, passed from hand to hand. It is rarely eaten alone. The same can be true of the craft of baking itself.
When we share recipes, methods, stories, and even mistakes, we widen the table. We make room for more people to learn, to bake, to feed the people they love. We move from competition to community.
These sourdough English muffins are a small symbol of that. They began in another baker’s kitchen. They traveled through her generosity into mine. From here, they travel again, to your tables and your toasters and your quiet mornings with coffee.
My hope is that you feel that lineage in every bite. That you sense the invisible community of hands behind them, all saying the same thing in their own way:
Here. Take this. Make it your own. Then share it on.
Warmly,
Kathy
Art of The Crumb
Bim’s Sourdough English Muffins Recipe
1,200 g. Bread flour
760 g. Milk
300 g. Sourdough starter or Discard one week old
80 g. Honey or sugar
22 g. Salt
3 eggs
Mix everything in a large bowl followed with 4 sets of stretch and fold every 30 minutes (2 hours)
Proof another 2 hours or until it rises 70% at 75º degrees.
Option one same day bake- cut the dough into 110 g. Or your preference size and bake.
Option two retard over night, cold retard gives the bread nice flavor.
In the morning cut the dough into size of your preference and mine are 110 g. (24 English muffins) making ball I use a lot of flour to handle them, rest dough on the countertop to proof another 2 hours or until double in size.
Oven Bake 400º
Before baking, cover each ball with individual cup (one cup size) find some heavy pot to put on top and bake for 20 minutes
Traditional bake.
Heat up the pan on medium low, put muffins in and covered the lid for 4-6 minutes each side or cook until golden brown, then transfer the English muffins into the baking tray and bake in the oven or air flyer another 4 minutes at 375º This way you avoid uncooked centers.
Loaves, Limits, and Letting Go: What Sourdough Is Teaching Me About Expectations
When Expectations Crowd the Counter
There are days when my biggest obstacle isn’t the dough in front of me—it’s the voice in my head.
It sounds like this:
You should be baking more.
You should be posting more.
You should be at that level by now.
Look at what they are doing.
Expectations pile up the way flour does: lightly, then all at once. What starts as a simple hope, “I’d love to grow this little bakery,” subtly turns into pressure: “If I don’t hit this number, this event, this look, I’m behind.” Before I realize it, my joy has been quietly swapped for anxiety. The craft I love becomes something I’m trying to “keep up” with, instead of something I’m receiving as a gift.
I’ve learned this the hard way: when I let expectations run the show, my baking, and my spirit, both suffer.
The Trap of Measuring Myself Against Other Bakers
Social media is a blessing and a snare. I can watch an incredible baker across the country shape perfect bâtards, score like an artist, fill tables with pastries I’ve never even attempted. I can learn so much: and I do. But if I’m not careful, admiration turns into comparison, and comparison turns into shame.
Suddenly my mind is full of “not enough”:
My crust isn’t as dark.
My scoring isn’t as intricate.
My menu isn’t as big.
My business isn’t as polished.
And yet, the people who come to my porch, a community table, or the New York Butcher Shoppe aren’t asking for perfection. They’re asking for bread that is honest, nourishing, and made with care. They’re not scrolling my mental list of failures; they’re slicing into a loaf that came from this kitchen, these hands, this life story.
When I compare my path to another baker’s, I’m measuring something God never asked me to measure. He didn’t call me to be the best baker on the internet. He called me to be faithful with what’s right in front of me.
Expectations as a Kind of Future-Tripping
In sobriety, I learned about “future tripping”…racing ahead in my mind to every possible disaster and then living as if it’s all already true. Expectations can be a cousin to that. Instead of catastrophes, they fill my head with invisible scorecards:
By now, you should be here.
Real bakers do this.
Real businesses look like that.
When I’m lost in expectation, I’m not in the room with the dough. I’m not with the starter, the scale, the gentle folds. I’m somewhere else entirely; living in an imaginary future where I’ve already been judged and found lacking.
But sourdough only lives in the present. It doesn’t care about where I “should” be. It responds to temperature, time, and touch right now. If my mind is ten steps ahead, I miss the quiet cues of the dough and, more importantly, the quiet presence of God in the moment.
What the Dough Knows: Returning to the Work in Front of Me
Bread has a way of humbling expectations.
You can follow the same formula and get a different result. One day the loaf springs high with a singing crust; the next it spreads a little, stubborn and low. Each bake reminds me: I am not fully in control. My job is to show up, pay attention, and do the next right thing, feed, mix, fold, bake.
When I feel overwhelmed by expectations or comparison, I’ve started asking myself three questions:
What is actually in front of me right now?
Not the imaginary audience, not the other baker’s feed. Just the dough, the oven, the person I’m baking for today.What is mine to do, and what belongs to God?
My part: honesty, effort, craftsmanship, care.
God’s part: outcomes, timing, who sees, who is moved.Does this expectation help me love people better, or just prove something?
If it helps me serve more gently, listen more deeply, give more freely,that’s worth holding. If it’s just about appearing impressive, it needs to go.
Loaves, Not Ladders
Expectations often feel like ladders: always another rung, always higher to climb. But my life has not been a climb; it’s been more like a series of loaves: one at a time, shaped by seasons, faith, and a lot of starting over.
I think about:
Six years of continuous sobriety.
A life rebuilt in my sixties.
A small home kitchen now baking for neighbors, a farmers market, a local butcher, and Manna Café.
None of that came from perfectly managed expectations. It came from a thousand small choices to keep going when I felt unsure, to show up when I felt behind, and to trust that my worth is not tied to anyone else’s pace or production.
God has never asked me for bigger numbers. He has asked me for a willing heart.
If You’re Suffocating Under Expectations
If you find yourself weighed down by all the “shoulds,” as a baker, as a parent, in your work, in your faith, here are a few gentle practices that help me:
Name the expectation honestly.
Write it down: “I think I should be ___ by now.” Seeing it on paper softens its power; you can question where it came from and whether it’s true.Shrink the circle.
Instead of comparing yourself to “everyone,” think of the one person you’re serving today. What do they actually need? It’s rarely perfection.Return to a simple, physical task.
Feed the starter. Shape one loaf. Stir a batter. Walk outside. Doing something small and embodied pulls you back from the fog of comparison.Let God hold the scoreboard.
Pray something like: “You know my heart. Help me be faithful, not frantic. Show me what’s mine to carry, and what I can lay down.”
Each time I release an expectation that isn’t mine, I make a little more room for joy, for creativity, for genuine connection. The bread gets better when the pressure lightens: not because the technique is suddenly perfect, but because my heart is present again.
I am still learning this. Some days I get lost in the scroll and forget who I am. But then I come back to the dough, to the quiet work, to the God who has carried me this far, and I remember:
I wasn’t called to impress the world.
I was called to feed the people in front of me, as honestly as I can.
One loaf. One table. One small, faithful step at a time.
Warmly,
Kathy
Art of The Crum
Face Everything And Rise: What Sourdough Taught Me About Fear
There was a time when fear felt like a houseguest who never left—one that rearranged the furniture, turned down the lights, and whispered catastrophes until I believed them. In the rooms we call that future tripping: my mind racing far ahead to every worst‑case scenario, rehearsing pain that hasn’t happened and, many times, will never happen. Fear became not just an emotion but a map I followed, and its directions were always toward smallness, isolation, and paralysis.
Early in my sobriety, I found myself sharing in meetings about the "what ifs,” about how they consumed me. I’d sit in a circle and tell the story of futures that hadn’t happened yet but had already stolen my peace. Six years of sobriety and counting, I don’t do that anymore. Acceptance is the answer. That real change didn’t come from pretending fear didn’t exist; it came from learning to notice it, name it, and move through it.
In AA we use a simple, stubborn piece of language: FEAR: Face Everything And Rise. It’s not platitude. It’s a practice. To face everything doesn’t mean to be fearless; it means to notice the fear, call it by name, and take another step anyway. Rising is the decision to keep showing up to life’s questions rather than pretending the answers are already written in disaster.
Sourdough taught me the rest. I didn’t set out to use bread as therapy, but the work of keeping a starter alive, of feeding it and waiting, of accepting imperfect loaves, mirrored the work I needed for recovery. When I’m creating loaves for a customer, my neighbors, or Manna Cafe, I find myself staying in the moment. Trusting the process. The routine, measure, feed, fold, wait, anchors me to the present and into a mindset of humility and patience.
There’s a useful comparison here. Fear, left unattended, behaves like an unfed starter: it grows wild and sour. But when tended with small, consistent practices it becomes manageable. Bread teaches this plainly. Some days the starter bubbles with enthusiasm; other days it’s sluggish. Sometimes a loaf sings in the oven; sometimes it collapses. Each outcome provides immediate feedback and the quiet lessons of cause and effect. The point isn’t perfection ; it’s showing up, learning, and rising again.
Grief and fear often sit side by side, indistinguishable at first: both heavy, both hungry. Grief wants to be named and felt; fear wants to be avoided or controlled. When they mingle, logic leaves the room. I’ve watched myself act irrationally, convinced by fear’s louder stories, when what was needed was breath, company, and a willingness to sit with not knowing.
If you’re being consumed, paralyzed by a future that hasn’t happened, try these steps I use when the what‑ifs start to crowd in:
Name it out loud. Say the fear or the “what if” in a meeting, to a friend, or into your phone. Naming moves the fear from imagined verdict to noticed feeling.
Take one tiny, concrete step. If your brain invents disaster scenarios about a meeting, make the call. If it invents failure, do a small action that contradicts the story. Tiny proof trumps the loudest what‑ifs.
Tend something that requires waiting. Make sourdough, water a plant, or keep a daily log. The discipline of tending grows tolerance for uncertainty.
Practice acceptance, not resignation. Acceptance doesn’t mean liking the situation; it means recognizing what is so you can act from there. In my experience, acceptance has been the difference between being hollowed out by fear and learning from it.
Each time I faced a fear, I collected a new kind of evidence: I survived, I learned, I rose. Each failed loaf reminded me that mistakes are information, not indictments. Each sober day taught me that the unknown is not an enemy but a landscape where possibility lives.
Fear won’t vanish overnight. It will visit. It may even move back in for a while. But fed with attention, met with small actions, and softened by acceptance, it loses its authority. You don’t have to outthink every what‑if. You only have to out‑act it one small step, again and again.
Face everything. Rise. And maybe…while you wait for the loaf to rise…you’ll learn how to keep rising too.
Warmly,
Kathy
Art of The Crumb
The Slow Loaf: What 72 Hours Gives Your Sourdough
Why It Takes Time: The True Pace of Sourdough
A Patient Practice
People often ask, “Why does it take so long to make a loaf?” The short answer: good sourdough is a slow conversation between flour, water, and microbes. Every loaf I make follows time-tested rhythms—feeding, fermenting, resting, shaping, proofing, and finally baking. Rushing any of those steps changes the flavor, texture, and structure. I refuse to compromise that process.
Why I Ask for 72 Hours’ Notice
When I say “please order 72 hours ahead,” I mean it. That window gives me the scheduling space to plan starter feedings, build the levain, and time bulk fermentation so your loaf finishes at peak maturity. It also allows for the inevitable adjustments—cooler kitchens, wetter flours, or busy baking days, so I can respond rather than force the dough. In practice, 72 hours lets me deliver the loaf you expect: the right oven spring, the right crumb, the right tang.
A Typical 72‑Hour Timeline
Day 0: Feed starter and prepare levain.
Day 1: Mix dough, first rise (bulk fermentation) with stretch-and-folds.
Day 2: Cold retard (slow proof overnight or longer in the fridge) to develop flavor and strength.
Day 3: Bench rest, final shaping, bake, cool, and package.
Some loaves need a slightly different timetable; the 72-hour window gives me that flexibility.
Care and Maintenance of the Starter
My starter is a living thing and the backbone of every loaf. It’s fed regularly with 100% hydration and kept on a schedule that matches my baking days. If I’m not baking daily, I adjust feedings or move it into the fridge to rest, but even refrigerated starters need reviving before they’re at baking strength. Consistent temperature, fresh flour, and attention (very small amounts of daily care) keep the starter vigorous and predictable. Skipping or shortcutting this care means weaker rise, poorer flavor, and uneven crumb, and I won’t sell loaves like that.
I Won’t Compromise the Process
I get asked to speed things up, no overnight ferments, bake tomorrow, rush it through. My answer is always the same: I won’t cut corners. The time is where the flavor and structure develop. If you want a quick bread, that’s a different thing entirely. I’ll happily recommend recipes. But my sourdough loaves are slow by design, and that’s part of what makes them worth waiting for.
Shipping: Why My Heart Sinks
I’ve tried shipping loaves. I’ve vacuum-sealed, packed, mailed—and each time I felt the loaf suffer. Vacuum sealing crushes the crust and quiets the aromas; the first bite loses what makes sourdough sing. Even carefully boxed, the loaf’s fragile balance of crust and crumb rarely survives long transit. For those reasons I don’t ship regularly. Quality matters more than convenience. I won’t compromise quality for a sale.
What I Offer Instead of Shipping
Local pickup or delivery in the Clarksville/Nashville areas so the loaf arrives whole and warm.
Whole loaves frozen for longer storage — slice at home from thawed bread for best texture.
Beeswax bag tips for short-term storage (keeps crust and crumb pleasant for days).
If you need a loaf mailed, ask and I’ll talk options—but expect compromises in crust and aroma.
How to Store Your Loaf Once It’s Home
Once your loaf arrives, treat it gently, sourdough dries out quickly if left exposed. My preferred method is an organic beeswax bread bag (the ones I make): cool the loaf completely, then tuck it in and fold the opening loosely so it can breathe. Other good options: a clean cotton bread bag or a kitchen towel wrapped loosely around the loaf for 1–2 days; a bread box that allows airflow but shields from drafts; or storing pre-sliced portions in an airtight container or bag in the fridge for short-term use (then toast or refresh in the oven). For anything beyond 3–4 days, slice and freeze: wrap slices in parchment or waxed paper, place in a labeled freezer bag, and toast straight from frozen. To refresh a slightly stale or softened crust, unwrap and heat the whole loaf at 350°F (175°C) for 8–12 minutes—this brings back some crunch and brightens the crumb.
A Promise to My Community
When you order from me, you’re not buying something rushed or mass-produced. You’re receiving loaves shaped by a living starter, kept on a careful schedule, and baked with the time and attention they deserve. I’m grateful for your questions and your patience—your 72-hour notice helps me keep this work honest and joyful.
Warmly,
Kathy
Art of The Crumb
Opening Day at the Market: What’s Coming to the Table
A New Saturday Rhythm Begins
May 9 is circled on my calendar, underlined, and quietly prayed over.
That’s Opening Day for the Clarksville Downtown Market, and for the first time, Art of The Crumb will have a tent there—right in the middle of the town that has helped me rebuild my life loaf by loaf.
I’ve baked for porches, pantry tables, neighbors, and friends. But this will be the first season I show up every Saturday, from 8:00 AM to 12:00 PM, with a table full of bread and treats, ready to meet you where you are: downtown, under an open sky, coffee in hand.
I wanted to start simple and honest. Nothing flashy. Just the basics done well, with care and intention. So here’s what you can expect to find on my table on Opening Day.
Market Day Breads
These are the heart of Art of The Crumb—slow-fermented, naturally leavened, baked fresh for the market.
Classic Sourdough Oval Loaf
My signature loaf. Naturally leavened, long-fermented, with a crackling crust and tender crumb. Perfect for toast, sandwiches, or tearing apart at the table.
Sourdough Sandwich Loaf
All the goodness of sourdough in a softer, slice-friendly shape. Ideal for school lunches, grilled cheese, or anyone who prefers a traditional pan loaf.
Sourdough Baguettes
Small Baguette – A 15 oz beauty, just right for a meal or two.
Large Baguette – A generous 30 oz loaf, perfect for gatherings, charcuterie boards, or a big family dinner.
Crisp on the outside, chewy on the inside, just as a baguette should be.
Sourdough Bread Bowls
About 15 oz each, sturdy enough to hold hot soup or chili, soft enough to eat every last bit. These are one of my quiet favorites, food and vessel in one.
A Little Beyond the Bread
Even though sourdough is the anchor of what I do, I’ve always believed that love shows up in all kinds of bakes. So, for Opening Day, I’ll be bringing a few family favorites from my own kitchen.
Cowboy Cookies
These are more than 50 years in the making. The recipe first came to my mom, a high school counselor and girls’ athletic coach, from one of her players. I started baking them in my teens and have slowly made them my own, swapping Crisco for real butter (Danish Creamery), adding Madagascar Bourbon vanilla, and tweaking the leavening so they bake up soft and pillowy.
I’ll have them packaged in:
Half-dozen bags (6 cookies)
Dozen bags (12 cookies)
Sourdough Cinnamon Bread
A tender, lightly sweet loaf swirled with cinnamon and sugar, made with sourdough for flavor and keeping quality. Toasted with butter, it tastes like a warm hug. Sold as whole loaves.
Muffins
To keep things simple for Opening Day, I’ll start with one muffin flavor (I’ll announce the flavor as we get closer—likely something cozy and familiar).
They’ll be sold in:
2-packs, for freshness and ease.
They freeze beautifully if you want to save one for later.
A Table for More Than Transactions
While I’m grateful to be selling bread, my deepest hope is that my booth becomes more than a quick stop.
I want it to feel like:
A place to ask your sourdough questions without feeling embarrassed.
A place to swap simple recipes and discard ideas.
A place where faith, starting over, and everyday life can be talked about right alongside crust and crumb.
As always, part of what I bake will continue to flow outward, to Manna Café Ministries and to families in need, through occasional pay-what-you-can batches. The market doesn’t change that; it simply gives me a bigger table and a new way to show up for this community.
Come Say Hello
If you’ve been following along online, tasted a loaf, sent a kind message, or quietly cheered from the background, you are woven into this moment.
On May 9, and every Saturday through October 3, you’ll find me at the Clarksville Downtown Market, from 8:00 AM to 12:00 PM: flour on my apron, bread on the table, and a genuine desire to know your name.
Come by, say hello, tell me how you like to eat your sourdough, and let’s keep building this little community one loaf, one cookie, one conversation at a time.
Warmly,
Kathy
Art of The Crumb
From My Kitchen to Main Street: Joining the Clarksville Downtown Market
A Quiet Yes I Didn’t See Coming
Some moments in life feel big and loud. Others arrive quietly, almost on tiptoe, and yet they change everything.
Being accepted as a vendor at the Clarksville Downtown Market was one of those quiet, life‑shifting moments for me.
This year, more than 200 makers, growers, and small businesses applied to be part of the market. Twelve artisan vendors were chosen. Somehow, Art of The Crumb is one of them. When I read the email, I just sat there for a minute, hands over my mouth, letting it sink in.
I felt honored. Humbled. A little stunned.
For a woman who rebuilt her life loaf by loaf, this felt like one more gentle confirmation that the slow, faithful work of showing up matters.
The Heart of a Town, Under an Open Sky
If you’ve ever been downtown on a Saturday morning, you know the Clarksville Downtown Market is more than a row of tents. It’s the heartbeat of our town when the weather turns warm.
Families with strollers, kids with sticky fingers and fresh fruit, couples with coffee in hand, neighbors running into each other in front of a farmer’s booth—it’s community, in the simplest, truest sense. Fresh produce, flowers, handmade goods, local music, and conversations that start with “What are you making with that?” and end with, “Maybe I’ll try it, too.”
In 2025, the Clarksville Downtown Market was voted the #1 farmers market in all of Tennessee. That recognition didn’t come from fancy branding—it came from people. From the way this town shows up for local growers and makers, and the way local growers and makers show up for this town.
To be welcomed into that circle feels sacred to me.
Market Mornings: Where You’ll Find Me
Market season runs from May 9 through October 3, every Saturday from 8:00 AM to 12:00 PM.
I will be there every Saturday, hands a little flour‑dusted, heart wide open—with:
Small‑batch sourdough boules
Seeded and “community” loaves
Seasonal treats and pastries
And a few surprises from my counter at home
But I don’t want my booth to be just a place where you buy bread and walk away. My hope is that it becomes a little meeting point—a place to:
Swap simple sourdough tips
Share discard recipes you can actually make on a busy weeknight
Ask questions without feeling intimidated
Talk about faith, grief, starting over, or whatever is on your heart that morning
And as always, woven into the business side is the part that matters the most to me:
Continuing to donate loaves to Manna Café Ministries
Offering occasional pay‑what‑you‑can batches for families who need a little help
Keeping dignity and kindness at the center of every exchange
Bread is how I show up for people. The market is simply a bigger table.
A Life Rebuilt, One Loaf at a Time
If you’ve read my recent writings, you know this season of my life was not guaranteed.
Six years of continuous sobriety.
A heart stitched back together through faith.
Sourdough arriving in my life like a quiet form of grace.
I didn’t set out with a five‑year business plan or a clear roadmap. I set out with a jar of starter, a deep need for healing, and a desire to serve.
There were many moments I almost quit, both in life and in baking. Loaves that fell flat. Days when grief or fear felt heavier than any Dutch oven I could lift. But with each small “yes”, to God, to sobriety, to getting back up again, something in me kept rising.
So when I say I’m honored to stand under a tent downtown on Saturday mornings, I don’t mean that lightly. This isn’t just a new sales channel. For me, it is a visible sign of an invisible journey. A reminder that it is possible to start over in your sixties, to build something honest and good from the ground up, and to stand in the middle of your hometown offering what you have with open hands.
Thank You for Helping Me Get Here
If you have:
Bought a loaf from my porch or my kitchen
Sent an encouraging message when I shared a hard part of my story
Stopped by a pantry table and said “thank you”
Or simply followed along quietly, cheering from the sidelines
You are part of this.
You helped make it possible for a small, home‑based sourdough bakery to take its place at Tennessee’s #1 farmers market.
As opening day approaches, I’ll share more about weekly menus, special bakes, and a few fun “market‑only” offerings. But for now, I just want to say this:
Thank you.
Thank you for trusting me with your tables, your stories, and your Saturday mornings to come.
If you’re anywhere near Clarksville this season, I would love to meet you. Come find the Art of The Crumb tent at the Clarksville Downtown Market any Saturday from May 9 to October 3, between 8:00 AM and 12:00 PM.
Tell me your name. Tell me where you’re from. Tell me your favorite way to eat sourdough.
Let’s keep feeding each other—with bread, with dignity, with kindness, and with a little yeast of hope.
Warmly,
Kathy
Art of The Crumb
Starting Over at Sixty-Four: Why It’s Never Too Late to Rise
It’s Not Too Late to Begin Again
If you had told me years ago that in my sixties I would be starting a sourdough bakery, sharing my story online, and celebrating over six years of continuous sobriety, I’m not sure I would have believed you.
By the time we reach this season of life, the world often expects us to be winding down, settling in, and staying put. But my story has been the opposite. My sixties have been a season of starting over, again and again, with more honesty, courage, and faith than I ever had in my twenties or thirties.
This chapter wasn't easy, but it has been honest. And that has made all the difference.
When the Life You Longed For No Longer Fits
There was a time when I was living the life I thought I always wanted: married to a Wall Street partner, raising four children in picturesque Greenwich, CT, tending to a home and a family that I loved dearly. For many years, that life fit. It was real, and it mattered.
But life shifted. My 27-year marriage ended. My children grew up. The house got quieter. The identity I had wrapped around being a wife and a full-time mother began to unravel. I outgrew the life I once longed for.
That realization was painful and disorienting. But it was also the beginning of something new. Before I could say “yes” to the life I’m living now, I had to be willing to admit that the old one no longer fit, even if I didn’t yet know what would come next.
The Hardest Part Isn’t Starting
People often ask me: “How did you start over?” The truth is, the hardest part wasn’t starting. The hardest part was deciding I wasn’t going back, even when I felt wildly uncomfortable.
That has been true in my sobriety, in my faith, and in sourdough.
It didn’t work the first, second, or third time I tried to change my life. I failed… a lot. I stumbled, I doubted, and more than once I found myself standing in the middle of my own mess, wondering if it would just be easier to return to what was familiar, even if it was slowly breaking me.
I didn’t feel brave. I felt uncomfortable.
But discomfort, I’ve learned, is often the doorway to transformation. The most uncomfortable decisions I made in these past years, getting sober, telling the truth, sharing my story, starting a business in my sixties, have paid me the most, not in money, but in peace, purpose, and joy.
Sobriety: Clearing the Counter to Make Space
On November 1, 2025, I celebrated six years of continuous sobriety. Today, it’s six years and counting.
Sobriety was my way of clearing the counter of my life. I had to own my behavior. I had to make amends. I had to look honestly at the pain I’d caused and the pain I’d tried to numb. I had to surrender to my Higher Power, whom I call God, and trust that He could make something new from the broken pieces.
That daily practice of honesty and surrender became the foundation beneath everything else. Sobriety taught me to show up when it was hard, to live in the light instead of hiding in the shadows, and to believe that my story wasn’t over yet.
Without that foundation, I don’t believe sourdough—or Art of The Crumb—would have ever taken root.
Sourdough: Letting the New Life Rise
I often say I didn’t find sourdough; sourdough found me.
In a season of grief, transition, and quiet rebuilding, I started mixing flour and water. I fed a starter. I failed at more loaves than I can count. But in that simple, living process, something in me began to heal.
Sourdough baking asks for the same things recovery does: patience, presence, and faith in what you can’t fully see. You mix, you fold, you wait. You trust that transformation is happening in the quiet, invisible spaces.
Somewhere between the folds and the long, slow rises, I realized this wasn’t just about bread. Sourdough was a way of starting over—deliberately, gently, and with my whole heart engaged. It became a way to serve others, to nourish my community, and to pour all the lessons of my life into something I could share.
Faith: The Fermentation Beneath It All
My faith has always been a thread in my story, but in this season, it has become the whole fabric.
One day, sitting in traffic and crying out, “God, what do you want of me?” I looked up and saw a sign for Manna Café Ministries. It felt like a divine nudge, a reminder that bread, faith, and service have always been intertwined.
Since then, my baking and my belief have grown together. Every loaf I bake for my neighbors, my customers, or for Manna Café is an extension of that whispered prayer: Use me. Let my small offering matter to someone today.
Faith is the fermentation beneath it all; the unseen work that gives rise to everything else.
To The One Wondering If It’s Too Late
If you’re reading this and wondering if it’s too late for you, too late to change, too late to start, too late to begin again. I want you to hear this clearly:
It is not too late.
You are not stuck with the life you outgrew. You are allowed to clear the counter. You are allowed to tell the truth. You are allowed to begin again in your fifties, your sixties, your seventies, or beyond.
Starting over might not look flashy. It might look like getting honest with yourself. It might look like asking for help. It might look like making amends, learning something new, or standing in your kitchen with flour on your hands, trying again after another failed attempt.
This chapter of my life hasn't been easy, but it has been honest. And that honesty has led me to more freedom, more connection, and more joy than I ever expected to find at this age.
So if you’re asking, “How do I start over?” here’s my advice from this rookie in her sixties:
Start small. Tell the truth. Lean into your faith. Find the thing that invites you into presence and discomfort and quiet joy—your own version of sourdough. And then, one gentle step at a time, let your new life rise.
Warmly,
Kathy
Art of The Crumb
From Sobriety to Sourdough: Building a New Foundation
A Part of the Story Left Untold
If you’ve been following along, you’ve heard about the flour, the water, and the wild yeast. You’ve heard about the loaves that failed and the ones that fed my neighbors. But there is a vital ingredient in my story I haven’t shared here before. It isn’t about hydration levels or the perfect ear on a loaf of bread. But without it, Art of The Crumb likely wouldn’t exist.
On November 1, 2025, I celebrated six years of continuous sobriety.
When people ask me about my sourdough journey, I usually talk about the slow fermentation or the joy of feeding people. But the truth is, the discipline, the humility, and the clarity required to bake bread didn’t start in the kitchen. They started the day I decided to stop running and finally surrendered.
Clearing the Counter: Owning My Behavior
In baking, before you can shape anything beautiful, you have to clear the counter. You have to remove the clutter to make space for the work. Sobriety was my way of clearing the counter of my life.
It has been a little over six years since I made the decision to take a hard look at the mess I had made. Recovery asked me to own my behavior, to stop blaming circumstances, and to stand in the truth of who I had been. It was uncomfortable—painfully so. But just like a sourdough starter cannot thrive in a contaminated jar, my spirit could not grow until I got honest. I had to scrub the corners of my life clean so that something new could actually live there.
The Art of Amends and Folding
One of the most critical parts of sourdough is the "fold,” taking the dough, stretching it to its limit, and folding it back over itself to build strength.
Recovery taught me a similar motion: the art of making amends. I had to go back to the people I had hurt, stretch myself past my pride, and try to repair the tears in my relationships. It was a process of gentle, repeated strengthening. I learned that you don't fix everything at once. You show up, you own your part, and you fold. You do it again the next day.
Over time, just like the dough transforms from a shaggy mess into a smooth, strong ball, my life began to hold its shape again. I learned that repair is possible, but only if you are willing to do the work.
Surrender and The Higher Power
There comes a moment in baking where you have done all you can do. You have mixed, you have folded, you have shaped. And then... you have to let go. You have to trust the heat of the oven and the wild yeast to do the rest.
This is where my faith steps in. My sobriety is not built on willpower; it is built on a reliance on my Higher Power, whom I call God.
In my drinking days, I tried to control everything to manage my pain. Surrendering to God was terrifying because it meant admitting I wasn't the one in charge. But in that surrender, I found peace. I learned to hand over my grief, my fear, and my future to Him. Now, when I close the oven door, it is a small, daily act of faith: a reminder that the transformation happens not by my power, but by His grace.
Vulnerability is the Secret Ingredient
For a long time, I thought strength meant hiding my cracks. Sobriety taught me that strength is actually showing them.
When I was drinking, I was hiding. Now, I am fully here. Because I am sober, I can be vulnerable. I can admit when a loaf fails, and I can admit when I am struggling. This vulnerability allows me to pour genuine love into these loaves. Art of The Crumb is about connection, and I realized that I couldn’t truly connect with others until I had reconnected with myself and God.
To The One Who Needs to Hear This
I share this not for applause, but because I know I am not alone. Maybe you are in the thick of a struggle right now. Maybe you are staring at a mess and wondering if it can ever be made right.
I am living proof that it can. You can clear the counter. You can make amends. You can surrender to a God who loves you. And you might just find that the things you learn in the hardest, most barren seasons of your life become the ingredients for your most beautiful creations later on.
It is an honor to bake for you—with hands that are steady, a conscience that is clear, and a heart that is finally free.
Warmly,
Kathy
Art of The Crumb
Advice From a Rookie (Who’s Been Here a Year)
It Starts With a Question
One of the most heartwarming things that has come from bringing Art of The Crumb into the world is the conversation it sparks. Friends, old and new, often reach out with questions that go beyond just flour and water: "How did you start making sourdough bread?" "Is it hard?" "Did you ever want to quit?" "I want to do that too, how do I start?"
These questions always make me smile, because while they sound like they’re about baking, I know they’re truly about something deeper. They’re about seeking transformation, about finding something steady and joyful in a world that can often feel anything but.
So, from one rookie to another—because in this beautiful journey, I’m always learning—here's some truth I’ve discovered.
The Uncomfortable Truth No One Talks About
When people see a beautiful loaf, or hear about a new venture, they often see the "after." They see the success, the joy, the loaves baked and shared. But no one talks about the moment you almost quit, right before everything changed.
I can tell you, I had those moments. More than once. It didn't work the first, second, or third time I tried. I failed... a lot. There were deflated loaves, gummy crumbs, and more than one starter that seemed utterly lifeless despite my best efforts. In those early days, standing over a stubbornly flat disc of dough, the thought of throwing in the towel was very real. It felt easier to just go back to what was comfortable, to close the chapter on this new, messy experiment.
Outgrowing, Not Just Growing
Looking back, I realize that the hardest part wasn't starting; it was deciding I wasn't going back, even if I got uncomfortable. And believe me, I got uncomfortable.
There was a profound shift in my life when I realized, quite suddenly, that I had outgrown the life I once longed for. The familiar patterns, the expectations, the comfortable routines, they no longer fit. That realization spurred me on, even when every fiber of my being wanted to retreat. The most uncomfortable decision I made last year also paid me the most, not in dollars, but in peace and purpose.
I didn't feel brave in those moments. I felt profoundly uncomfortable. But discomfort, I've learned, is often the fertile ground where true growth begins. It's the stretch, the pull, the necessary tension before a new shape emerges.
Sourdough Didn't Just Find Me, It Shaped Me
As I shared in my first post, I didn't find sourdough, sourdough found me. It came into my life at a time when I needed something tangible to tend, something that asked for patience and presence.
But here’s the secret, the thing I think my friends are really seeing: the transformation isn't just in the bread. It’s in me. This journey, especially with Art of The Crumb, has been my process of leaning into my faith and God, and actively pursuing something that brings me immense joy. It’s a joy that overflows, a comfort that can be shared.
This chapter wasn't easy, but it was honest. It was about embracing the messiness of learning, the vulnerability of sharing, and the profound satisfaction of tending to something alive—whether it’s a bubbling starter or a calling in your heart.
So, if you’re asking "how do I start?", my advice from this rookie is this: Find your sourdough. Find the thing that pulls you into discomfort, that demands your presence, that makes you feel both challenged and deeply alive. Maybe it’s not baking. Maybe it's a new skill, a new path, a new way of connecting. Whatever it is, lean into it. Trust that the process, the journey itself, is where your true transformation lies. And know that you don’t have to feel brave to start; you just have to be willing to get a little uncomfortable.
Warmly,
Kathy
Art of The Crumb
Beeswax and Crust: Why I started using Beeswax Bread Bags
A Neighbor’s Question
It started like so many answers in my kitchen—with a question from a neighbor. After one year of baking and sharing loaves around Clarksville, people kept asking how to keep sourdough tasting as fresh as the day it came from my oven. I tried cloth, paper, plastic, and more. The solution that kept coming back to me was simple and natural: beeswax bread bags. They’ve become my go-to for keeping crumb tender and crust honest, and I want to share why.
I Make My Own Bags
I taught myself how to make beeswax bread bags and now make and sell them locally. I use 100% cotton fabrics I choose myself: sturdy, food-safe cloths that feel right in the hands and look lovely on a kitchen counter. Making the bags lets me control quality and match the fabric to the loaf: cheerful patterns for sandwich bread, rustic linens for country boules.
What Beeswax Bags Actually Do
Beeswax bags create a breathable, slightly humid microclimate. That sounds technical, but what it means in practice is this: crusts stay pleasantly crisp without turning leathery, and the crumb doesn't dry out into a sad, crumbly thing. The wax coating seals out too much air while still allowing a little exchange, exactly what a living loaf needs to stay enjoyable for several days.
Why They Fit My Values
One of the reasons I love beeswax bags is how well they fit my values. They’re reusable, compostable when they finally wear out, and often made with sustainably harvested beeswax layered on my selected 100% cotton. Compared to single-use plastic or storage that traps too much moisture (hello, mold), beeswax bags feel like the responsible middle ground: protective but kind.
How I Use a Beeswax Bag (Simple Steps)
Let the loaf cool fully on the counter. Warm bread inside = condensation = sogginess or mold.
Slide the loaf into the beeswax bag and fold or loosely roll the opening. Don’t seal airtight—breathability is the point.
Store at room temperature, away from direct sun or heat. In my kitchen that’s usually the sideboard or top of the fridge.
For longer storage (beyond 3–4 days), slice and freeze; beeswax bags work well for holding pre-sliced portions before freezing.
What I’ve Seen in the First Year
Longer Freshness: My loaves remain pleasant for 3–5 days, soft crumb, good flavor, and no chalky dryness.
Better Crust Texture: Not glassy like plastic-wrapped bread, and not as hard as heavy cotton alone.
Fewer Wasteful Wraps: One bag lasts months of regular use; I replace only when the waxing fades.
Community-Friendly: When I deliver loaves, recipients appreciate the presentation and ease of keeping the bread at its best.
Caring for Your Beeswax Bag
Clean with cool water and gentle soap; avoid hot water, it can soften the wax.
Air-dry completely before storing.
If the wax starts to look dull, re-wax with a kit or a beeswax block following the maker’s instructions.
Keep away from open flames and high heat.
When They’re Not the Best Option
If you live in very humid conditions and mold is a constant worry, use beeswax for short-term storage and move extra slices to the freezer promptly. For multi-week storage, the freezer is still the winner—wrap slices in parchment, then a labeled bag, and freeze.
A Small Ritual That Honors the Loaf
Using a beeswax bag isn’t just about chemistry or convenience; it’s another way of treating bread with care. It’s the same attention I give when I score a loaf or feed my starter. Tucking a loaf into its beeswax home feels like tucking a child into a warm bed, tender, practical, and full of quiet respect.
Bread, Belonging, and the Little Things
People ask why I share process and tiny practices like this. My answer is simple: bread is a way to belong. When I tell someone the best way to store a loaf, I’m offering more meals, more shared sandwiches, and more moments that pull people together. Beeswax bags are a small tool in that work, and making them by hand, from 100% cotton I’ve chosen, feels like another way to fold care into the community.
Where to Start
Look for high-quality, food-safe beeswax bags from local makers or reputable online shops—bonus points if they’re locally produced. Or try one of mine: made from 100% cotton fabrics I’ve selected and hand-waxed in my Clarksville kitchen. Start with one for your everyday loaf and see how it changes how you use and share your bread.
Warmly,
Kathy
Art of The Crumb
Fermented Faith:How Sourdough Brought Me Back to God
The Significance of Bread
Bread is often referred to as the staff of life, a staple that transcends cultures and generations. It carries profound significance throughout scripture, representing sustenance, community, and divine provision. In the Bible, bread is woven into the fabric of faith, from the manna God provided to the Israelites in the wilderness to Jesus identifying Himself as the "Bread of Life," symbolizing unwavering nourishment for the soul. Each loaf tells a story, connecting us to tradition, memory, and the essence of shared humanity.
My journey into sourdough and the rekindling of my faith began during a moment of deep desperation. One day, while stopped in traffic, I cried out to God, asking for guidance. "What do you want of me?" I pleaded, feeling lost and uncertain. Just then, I glanced up and noticed a sign that read, "Manna Cafe Ministries." This community outreach serves those in need by providing a food pantry, healthcare services, and community dinners.
This moment felt like a divine nudge, reaffirming the connection between bread, faith, and service. I realized that my budding passion for sourdough could be a vehicle for compassion and community engagement. Inspired by that sign, I began to share my loaves with Manna Cafe, offering nourishment not only in the form of bread but also as a gesture of love and connection. As I baked, I found purpose in helping others, and my sourdough journey became intertwined with the mission to support my community.
A Journey of Healing
For me, the act of making sourdough bread has become a deeply personal journey of healing and transformation. I found solace in the rhythm of mixing, kneading, and waiting—each step mirroring my own process of grappling with grief and seeking grace. Just as ancient grains come together to create something beautiful and sustaining, I discovered that my trials and tribulations could also be woven into a tapestry of healing.
Navigating Grief
Grief can arrive without warning, infiltrating the corners of our hearts and transforming our everyday lives into a series of heavy moments. At times, it has felt like a tidal wave crashing over me, making it difficult to navigate the waters of life. In those moments, I have often found myself by my kitchen counter, the soft glow of the light illuminating my baking supplies, surrendering my heartache to God. I cried over the bowl of dough, blending my tears with the flour and water, creating a mixture infused with raw vulnerability and emotion.
One day, while packing for a move, I stumbled upon a hidden box filled with cards and letters from loved ones, reminding me of the connections I once cherished. Each message proclaimed love and gratitude, reaffirming my role in nurturing relationships. The memories flooded over me with bittersweet feelings, leading me to question my past. But rather than letting that pain consume me, I turned to the sacred act of bread-making for clarity.
Embracing the Rhythm of Baking
As the days turned into weeks, I embraced the rhythm of baking, which transcended mere tradition. Nurturing my sourdough starter became a meditation, drawing me closer to the essence of creation, the transformation of simple ingredients into something beautiful and nourishing. It mirrored my longing for personal transformation.
One morning, as I mixed the ingredients, I felt a wave of gratitude wash over me. I remembered the verses from scripture that spoke of God as the Bread of Life; a nourishing presence in times of need. I whispered thanks for the journey I was on, the lessons I was learning, and the faith that was beginning to blossom within me.
A Spiritual Awakening
The process of fermentation became a metaphor for my spiritual awakening. Just as the wild yeast and bacteria danced together in my jar, forming a living culture, I realized my faith was also alive and evolving, gradually bubbling to the surface as I worked through my fears and doubts. Much like the dough needing time to rise, I too needed time to become who I was meant to be. In this nurturing, I felt God’s presence guiding me, reminding me that faith is not always about certainty; it’s about trusting the process.
Recognizing God's Presence
Throughout my sourdough journey, I began to recognize how God reveals Himself in the simplest of moments. As I shared my bread and exchanged stories with friends and neighbors, I felt the genuine warmth of fellowship. It became clear to me that community is a divine gift; when we share bread, we multiply love.
This realization was further validated when my neighbor underwent knee surgery and could no longer cook for her family. I frequently brought them hot meals, and one day, I included a loaf of my sourdough. Later, she texted me: "Did you know I am gluten intolerant? I can only eat sourdough bread, and store-bought options bother my stomach. I didn’t experience that with your bread. Thank you!" In that moment, I felt certain that God was guiding my path and orchestrating these meaningful connections.
Embracing Imperfections
One powerful lesson I learned was about imperfections. I once baked a loaf that didn’t rise as expected; it was dense and heavy. I almost tossed it aside in disappointment, but then remembered how much care and love I had put into that loaf. It dawned on me that my faith, much like that bread, doesn’t have to be perfect to be valuable. God doesn’t require flawless faith; He seeks our hearts just as they are, with all their lumps and shortcomings.
Connection Through Creation
As I stood before the oven, watching the crust brown and the steam escape, I felt a profound connection to the Creator and to my community. Each loaf became a prayer: a tangible expression of my hopes, dreams, and love. When I shared my bread with friends and neighbors, I was offering a piece of my soul, inviting them into the journey I was experiencing.
Baking sourdough has not only nurtured my spirit but also fostered a sense of belonging and connection within my community. Whether it was a warm loaf for a neighbor in need or a gathering where we broke bread together, I discovered the beauty of sharing—not just food, but also stories and moments that bind us. In those exchanges, I felt the power of compassion and support, reinforcing the idea that in sharing our creations, we uplift each other in ways that nourish both body and soul.
Warmly,
Kathy
Art of The Crumb
A Year of Sourdough: Lessons in Flour, Faith, & Fermentation
A Year of AOTC
It is hard to believe that it has been a full year since I first mixed flour and water in a jar, hoping for signs of life.
Looking back at the beginning of my sourdough journey, I remember the uncertainty. I remember staring at my starter, wondering if it was bubbly enough, and the nervous anticipation of pulling those first few loaves out of the oven. What started as a quest for a simple loaf of bread has quietly transformed into a daily rhythm—a practice that anchors my days here in Clarksville.
Over the last 365 days, my kitchen has seen hundreds of loaves. Some were perfect, with tall ears and airy crumbs. Others were... well, let’s just say they were humble lessons in humility. But every single one taught me something.
Here is what a year of sourdough has taught me about baking, and about life.
Perfection is Not the Goal; Presence Is
In the beginning, I was chasing the "Instagram-perfect" loaf. I wanted the wild open crumb and the intricate scoring patterns immediately. But sourdough quickly humbled me.
I learned that you cannot force the dough. You cannot negotiate with fermentation. If the kitchen is cold on a winter morning in Tennessee, the dough needs more time. If it’s a humid summer afternoon, it moves faster.
I learned to stop watching the clock and start watching the dough. I learned to be present with the process. Sourdough requires you to show up, pay attention, and respond to what is right in front of you. It’s a beautiful reminder that joy isn’t found in rushing to the finish line, but in being faithful to the work of the moment.
Intuition Over Instruction
When I started, I followed recipes to the gram, terrified to deviate. A year later, baking has become less of a formula and more of a feeling.
I’ve learned to "listen" with my hands. I know the feeling of a dough that has been strengthened enough, and the specific jiggle of a starter that is at its peak. This shift from rigid instruction to gentle intuition has been incredibly freeing. It has given me the confidence to experiment, trusting that I know enough to guide the dough home.
An Invisible, Living Connection
Perhaps the most profound thing I’ve learned came from something I read recently.
There is an article called "Sourdough Hands" that explores how bakers and their bread are actually a "microbial match." The science suggests that a baker’s hands transfer unique microbes into the dough, meaning that my starter is biologically influenced by me.
This resonated so deeply with my spirit. I have always felt an inexplicable bond with my bread, but knowing this made it tangible. It means I am quite literally poured into these loaves. They carry a unique signature that cannot be replicated by anyone else.
This realization changed how I view sharing my bread. When I hand a loaf to a neighbor or slice bread for a community dinner, it isn’t just a transaction of food. It is a deep, human exchange. By sharing this bread, I am sharing a part of myself, creating a connection that is invisible but deeply meaningful. It is a reminder that we are all woven together in ways we can’t always see.
Community is Built at the Table
While the technical skills have been rewarding to learn, the true heart of this year has been the people.
Bringing Art of The Crumb to life has shown me that bread is a universal language. I have seen how a simple loaf can brighten a neighbor's day or bring dignity to a meal at the local food pantry. I’ve learned that people are hungry; not just for sustenance, but for the care that comes with something homemade.
Every time I score a loaf, I think about who might eat it. Will it be a family gathered for dinner? A friend needing comfort? A stranger at the community center? That intention turns a chore into a ministry.
Looking Ahead
As I head into my second year of sourdough, my kitchen feels more alive than ever. Cooper is still underfoot hoping for a dropped piece of crust, and Tobie still supervises from his perch. The rhythm of feeding the starter, mixing, folding, and baking has become the heartbeat of my home.
To everyone who has followed along, tasted a loaf, or shared a kind word this past year, thank you. You have helped turn a quiet healing hobby into a community.
Here’s to another year of slow mornings, hot ovens, and breaking bread together.
Warmly,
Kathy
Art of The Crumb
A Little More About AOTC
Coming Soon!
How Art of The Crumb Was Born
Art of The Crumb didn’t begin as a business plan.
It began as a moment of quiet healing in my kitchen.
Like so many chapters in my life, sourdough found me when I needed it most. What started as a simple experiment—mixing flour and water, waiting, trusting—slowly became a source of grounding and comfort. In the midst of life’s changes, losses, and transitions, baking sourdough offered me something steady. Something alive. Something hopeful.
Sourdough asks for patience. It teaches you to slow down, to observe, to respond rather than rush. And in that gentle rhythm of feeding a starter, folding dough, and waiting for fermentation to work its magic, I began to feel whole again.
A Love Language, Reimagined
For as long as I can remember, feeding people has been my love language.
As a mother of four, much of my life was spent nurturing my family through home-cooked meals and from-scratch baking. Over the years, whether in California, Connecticut, or now Tennessee, my kitchen has always been a place of comfort, conversation, and care.
Sourdough felt like a natural extension of that instinct to nourish. Simple ingredients. Traditional methods. No shortcuts. Just flour, water, salt, and time: transformed into something deeply satisfying.
Each loaf felt personal. No two were ever exactly the same, and I loved that. The cracks in the crust, the open crumb, the tang that develops only through slow fermentation, every detail told a story.
Faith, Service, and the Power of Bread
My faith has always been a quiet but steady source of strength in my life, especially during seasons of loss and rebuilding. It has taught me that nourishment goes beyond food, and that even the simplest acts can be a form of service.
As my sourdough journey grew, it felt natural to share it not only with friends and neighbors, but also with those in need. Today, I bake bread for our local food pantry and for the community dinners they host. loaves made with the same care, patience, and quality as any other.
There is something deeply meaningful about breaking bread together. In those moments, bread becomes more than sustenance; it becomes comfort, dignity, and connection. Being able to contribute in this way has been one of the most humbling and rewarding parts of my baking journey.
From Healing to Sharing
Before long, friends and family began asking for bread. Then neighbors. Then people I barely knew, but who had heard about “that sourdough Kathy makes.”
I’d deliver loaves still warm from the oven and later receive messages about slices eaten straight off the cutting board, crusts crackling, butter melting into the crumb. Those small moments reminded me that bread has the power to bring people together.
That’s when Art of The Crumb quietly took shape.
What began as a personal form of healing grew into a way to serve others; through my community, my faith, and my kitchen.
Rooted in Tradition, Made with Heart
Today, from my cozy kitchen in Clarksville, Tennessee, I craft small-batch sourdough bread using high-quality, organic ingredients and time-honored techniques. Every loaf is shaped by hand, fermented naturally, and baked with intention.
My baking is inspired by California roots, Connecticut years, and Southern hospitality, blending tradition, warmth, and a whole lot of heart. Alongside classic loaves, I love experimenting with starters and specialty baked goods, always guided by intuition and care.
And of course, I’m never truly baking alone. Cooper, my loyal white Lab, is always nearby, and Tobie, my orange cat and unofficial bakery mascot, keeps watch from afar.
An Open Invitation
Art of The Crumb is more than bread. It’s a story of resilience, faith, community, and finding joy again through simple, meaningful work.
Whether you’re a fellow sourdough baker, someone seeking nourishing food, or simply someone who believes in the power of sharing a meal, I’m so glad you’re here. My hope is that every loaf brings comfort, connection, and a reminder that love, like sourdough, grows when it’s shared.
Thank you for being part of this journey, one crumb at a time.
Warmly,
Kathy
Art of The Crumb