Keep Coming Back
It Works If You Work It
There is a phrase I learned years ago that has stayed with me ever since.
Keep coming back.
At first, I thought those words were simply an invitation to return.
To another meeting.
To another day.
To another chance.
Over time, I realized they were describing something much deeper.
They were describing a way of living.
Because the truth is, very little in life is transformed by one grand moment.
Most things are changed by quiet consistency.
By showing up again.
And again.
And again.
Flour, Water, and Faith
When sourdough entered my life, I didn't realize it was teaching me the very same lesson.
A starter doesn't ask for perfection.
It asks for consistency.
You feed it.
You wait.
You trust.
You come back tomorrow.
There are days when it looks sleepy.
Days when it seems to burst with life.
Days when you wonder if you're doing everything wrong.
And still...
You keep coming back.
It turns out healing works much the same way.
The Life That Is Built Slowly
People sometimes ask me how I built Art of The Crumb.
The answer isn't very exciting.
I kept coming back.
I kept learning.
I kept failing.
I kept asking questions.
I kept baking.
I kept praying.
I kept showing up.
There wasn't one moment that changed everything.
There were thousands of ordinary moments that slowly changed me.
The Pause Between Here and What's Next
As I write this, I'm preparing to leave for Arizona to attend the Proof Bread Intensive.
My mind is full of questions.
How do I scale?
What comes next?
How do I grow without losing the heart of this little bakery?
I don't have those answers yet.
And for once...
I'm okay with that.
Because if sourdough has taught me anything, it's this:
The next step doesn't have to be forced.
It simply has to be faithful.
Tomorrow, I'll keep coming back.
To learning.
To listening.
To curiosity.
To whatever God has waiting for me there.
An Invitation
Maybe that's what we all need from time to time.
Not a new plan.
Not a dramatic breakthrough.
Just the willingness to come back.
To the work.
To the people we love.
To our faith.
To the practices that steady us.
To hope.
Because transformation isn't usually found in the extraordinary.
It's found in the ordinary things we choose to do over and over again.
Feed the starter.
Say the prayer.
Write the page.
Bake the bread.
Love the people in front of you.
And tomorrow...
Keep coming back.
Warmly,
Kathy
Art of The Crumb
Why I Write
A Quiet Declaration
There was a time when I believed I was building a bakery.
Then I thought I was writing a book.
Somewhere along the way, I realized I was doing neither.
I was learning to pay attention.
To the quiet ways God moves through ordinary moments.
To the sacred hidden within the everyday.
To the conversations that linger long after the bread is gone.
To the lessons found in failure, the beauty revealed through patience, and the hope that quietly rises when we choose to keep showing up.
My life has taught me that Grace rarely arrives with fanfare.
More often, it unfolds.
Slowly.
Patiently.
Faithfully.
Like a loaf of sourdough rising before dawn.
Like healing that comes one small step at a time.
Like a prayer answered in a way I never expected.
For many years, I gathered evidence of disappointment.
Today, I choose to gather evidence of Grace.
I choose to notice.
To pause.
To remember.
To collect the quiet stones that mark God's faithfulness along the path, trusting that what seems ordinary today may one day become the very story that encourages someone else.
Whether I am baking bread, writing words, serving my community, or simply sharing a cup of coffee across a kitchen table, my hope is always the same:
That people leave feeling nourished.
Not only in body, but in spirit.
That they leave feeling seen.
Encouraged.
Welcomed.
Reminded that kindness still matters.
Reminded that healing is possible.
Reminded that God is often closest in the ordinary moments we are most tempted to overlook.
Art of The Crumb was born from flour and water.
But its true foundation has always been Grace.
The bread is simply one expression of that Grace.
The writing is another.
Together, they tell the story of a life still becoming.
I believe every life is filled with stones of remembrance—quiet moments that reveal God's presence if we are willing to notice them.
My calling is simply this:
To write about the unfolding of Grace.
To gather its evidence.
To share its stories.
And to invite others to discover that Grace has been quietly unfolding in their lives all along.
Warmly,
Kathy VandenBerghe
Stones of Remembrance
An Unexpected Email
A few days ago, I received an email from a customer.
I expected it to be about bread. Maybe they wanted to place an order. Maybe they had a question about storage or wanted to tell me they had enjoyed their loaf.
Instead, I found myself reading words I wasn't expecting.
"You have a way of filling a room with a sense of peace."
I read that sentence several times.
Not because it was flattering.
Because it became one of those moments I never want to forget.
In the Old Testament, after the Israelites crossed the Jordan River, God instructed them to gather stones from the riverbed and build a memorial. They would become stones of remembrance—a tangible reminder of God's faithfulness so that future generations would ask, "What do these stones mean?"
I think we all gather stones throughout our lives.
Not stones we can hold in our hands, but moments that remind us who we are becoming. A handwritten note. An unexpected conversation. A kindness we never saw coming. Words spoken at just the right time.
This email became one of those stones for me.
What People Really Remember
As bakers, we spend so much of our time chasing the tangible things.
The perfect ear.
A beautiful crumb.
Better oven spring.
The right hydration.
Freshly milled flour.
The list never ends.
And while all of those things matter—they should matter—we can begin to believe they are the most important part of what we offer.
But what if they aren't?
What if people remember something entirely different?
What if they remember how they felt?
A Table Is Never Just a Table
Every Saturday I stand behind my table at the Clarksville Downtown Market.
People come for bread.
At least that's what they think.
But somewhere between slicing samples, answering questions, and wrapping warm loaves, something else happens.
People tell me about their week.
They introduce me to their children.
They share stories about parents they've lost.
They celebrate birthdays, anniversaries, retirements, and new beginnings.
Sometimes they tell me things I imagine they haven't told many people.
I've often wondered why.
Maybe it's because bread has always been an invitation.
It slows us down.
It asks us to gather.
It reminds us that nourishment has never been only about food.
The Long Road to Peace
If someone had met me years ago, I don't know that "peace" is the word they would have used.
Life has a way of shaping us.
There have been seasons of grief.
Seasons of fear.
Seasons of rebuilding.
Seasons where I was simply trying to find my footing.
There were days when I believed I had lost far more than I would ever recover.
But healing has a quiet way of changing us.
Not all at once.
Not dramatically.
Little by little.
Much like sourdough itself.
Flour.
Water.
Time.
Consistency.
Faith.
One day you realize you are no longer the person you were.
Bread as a Vehicle
I've often said that Art of The Crumb was never just about bread.
It was about finding my way back to myself.
It was about learning to trust God again.
It was about discovering that service has a remarkable way of healing the one who serves.
The bread became the vehicle.
The real work was happening inside me.
Perhaps that's why the email touched me so deeply.
The customer never mentioned my bread.
They mentioned peace.
And somehow, that felt like the greatest compliment I could have received.
What I Hope People Take Home
Of course I hope every loaf has a beautiful crust.
I hope the crumb is exactly as it should be.
I hope families gather around tables and tear into fresh bread together.
But if someone leaves my table carrying something more than a loaf...
If they leave feeling seen.
If they leave feeling encouraged.
If they leave believing, even for a moment, that kindness still exists in this world...
Then I think I've done something worthwhile.
The Real Measure
Success is an interesting thing.
There was a time when I thought success would be measured by how many loaves I sold.
Or whether I would someday have a storefront.
Or how much my bakery might grow.
Those things may come.
Or they may not.
But I'm beginning to think the real measure of a life is much quieter than that.
It's found in the things we never set out to earn.
A conversation.
A returning customer.
A handwritten note.
An unexpected email.
A sentence that reminds us who we're becoming.
"You have a way of filling a room with a sense of peace."
I don't know that there is a greater gift than knowing someone walked away with that instead of simply remembering the bread.
Maybe that's what Art of The Crumb has been teaching me all along.
Bread feeds the body.
But love, kindness, and peace...
Those are the things people carry home.
Warmly,
Kathy
Art of The Crumb
What the Rain Revealed
The Forecast
Yesterday began with uncertainty.
Every weather app seemed to tell a different story. One predicted a fifty-five percent chance of rain. Another insisted it was nearly eighty percent. The sky overhead didn't seem interested in either forecast. It was dark, heavy, and waiting.
My son and I arrived at the market around six o'clock to begin setting up, hoping we could beat whatever weather was coming.
We couldn't.
Within minutes, the skies opened.
Not with a passing summer shower, but with rain that can only be described as Biblical.
Thunder echoed across the market. Lightning flashed overhead. Nearly three-quarters of an inch of rain fell in what felt like moments. Water pooled on the tops of our tents, threatening to collapse them if we didn't keep pushing it off. Bread became wet. Tables had to be moved. Boxes were hurried beneath tables. Everyone was scrambling.
For a few moments, it was absolute chaos.
Where My Attention Went
It's interesting what storms reveal.
Standing there in the middle of it, I wasn't thinking about whether I would sell bread.
I wasn't thinking about another sellout.
I wasn't even thinking about my own booth.
I looked around and realized other vendors needed help.
Without saying much, my son and I started moving from booth to booth, helping wherever we could. Holding tents. Moving tables. Checking on neighbors. Making sure products weren't blowing away or floating away.
There wasn't time to ask who needed help.
You simply helped the person standing in front of you.
Looking back, I think that's what community looks like.
Not when the skies are blue.
When they're anything but.
The Calm After the Storm
Then, almost as quickly as it had begun...
It stopped.
The thunder faded.
The rain gave way to quiet.
Every one of us was soaked.
We wrung out our shirts, took a deep breath, and began setting our booths back up as though nothing had happened.
And then something remarkable happened.
People came.
Despite the weather.
Despite the uncertainty.
They came.
Keeping Their Word
My very first customers were a family who, three weeks ago, had asked if I would have my seeded loaves.
I told them I would.
They smiled and said they would be back.
Yesterday, they kept their word.
They walked up wearing rain jackets, carrying umbrellas, smiling as though the storm had simply been part of the adventure.
As I handed them their bread, emotion caught me by surprise.
I thanked them through tears.
I apologized that the loaves had gotten a little wet and offered them at a discount.
They declined.
They didn't hesitate.
They simply smiled, took the bread, thanked me, and wished me a wonderful market.
That small exchange meant more to me than I can adequately explain.
What the Rain Revealed
I've spent a great deal of time writing about what sourdough has taught me.
Patience.
Consistency.
Trust.
Showing up.
Yesterday, the lesson came from somewhere else.
The rain revealed generosity.
It revealed neighbors who instinctively cared for one another before caring for themselves.
It revealed customers who remembered a conversation from three weeks earlier and kept their promise.
It revealed that trust is built quietly, one conversation, one loaf, one Saturday at a time.
Yesterday also reminded me why I started Art of The Crumb.
Yes, I love baking bread.
I love the science behind fermentation. I love the rhythm of mixing dough before the sun comes up. I love pulling beautiful loaves from the oven.
But what I love most has very little to do with bread.
I love the people.
The conversations.
The familiar faces returning week after week.
The opportunity to serve my community in ways that extend far beyond what sits on the table.
Yesterday, I sold out again.
But somewhere between the thunder, the soaked tents, the wet loaves, the helping hands, and the tears of gratitude, I realized something.
I thought I was building a bakery.
What has quietly been growing all along is a community.
And that...
was the greatest gift yesterday revealed.
Warmly,
Kathy
Art of The Crumb
The Practice of the Pause
What Sourdough Has Taught Me About the Pause
There are so many parallels I find myself noticing in this season of my life, and most of them reveal themselves quietly, without effort, as if they have always been there waiting for me to see them.
One of those parallels is something I learned long before sourdough ever entered my life.
“Practice the pause.”
It is something we say often in the rooms of AA. At first, it sounds simple, almost too simple to carry the kind of weight it does. But over time, you begin to understand that it is not just a suggestion. It is a way of living.
Because before that, before I learned to pause, I reacted.
I moved quickly. I thought quickly. I responded from instinct, from habit, from patterns that had been formed over years without ever being questioned. And those patterns, if I am honest, were not leading me anywhere I wanted to go.
My life had become unmanageable.
Not all at once, and not in a way that announced itself clearly, but in a slow unraveling that eventually brought me to a place where something had to change.
For some of us, that place is called rock bottom.
And from there, we are asked to begin again.
What I did not expect is that years later, standing in my kitchen, working with flour, water, and time, I would find myself being taught that same lesson all over again.
The pause.
Because sourdough does not respond well to urgency.
It does not reward rushing or reacting. It does not bend to impatience or adjust itself to meet the pace of your thoughts. It simply remains what it is, and it asks something different of you.
It asks you to wait.
It asks you to pay attention.
It asks you to pause.
There is a moment in the process, many moments actually, where the instinct is to do more.
To add something.
To fix something.
To move it along.
The dough feels too sticky.
Too slack.
Not ready.
And everything in you wants to react.
But if I have learned anything through this work, it is this:
Most of the time, what is needed is not more action.
It is less.
It is stepping back.
It is letting the dough rest.
It is trusting that something is happening even when I cannot yet see it.
That is the pause.
And I have begun to recognize that this is the same work I was asked to do in sobriety.
To interrupt the old patterns.
To stop the immediate reaction.
To create space between what I feel and what I do.
Because in that space, something else becomes possible.
Before, I would have moved quickly.
I would have tried to control the outcome, to manage the moment, to fix what felt uncertain.
Now, I pause.
Not perfectly.
Not every time.
But more often than I used to.
And in that pause, I notice something.
I notice that I am no longer being pulled in the same way.
I notice that I can choose.
That is where the shift happens.
So here I am, healing, rebuilding, learning to live differently.
And it is happening in ways I never could have predicted.
Not through something complicated.
Not through something dramatic.
But through something as simple as a jar of flour and water.
And yet, it is not that simple.
Because what I am practicing in the kitchen is not just baking.
It is presence.
It is patience.
It is steadiness.
It is the willingness to show up again and again without needing immediate results.
It is the discipline of not reacting when something feels off.
It is the trust that something is working beneath the surface, even when I cannot see it yet.
And when I look at it that way, the answer becomes clearer.
Is it the practice?
Is it the showing up?
Is it the patience?
Is it the steadiness?
Yes.
Because those are the same things that have allowed me to heal.
The pause is where everything changes.
Not because something outside of me shifts, but because something inside of me does.
It is where I stop repeating what no longer serves me.
It is where I allow something new to take root.
It is where I begin to live differently, not in big, dramatic ways, but in small, consistent choices that build over time.
And now, I see it everywhere.
In my faith.
In my work.
In the way I move through my days.
I no longer only turn to God when things fall apart.
I return to Him in the quiet.
In the pause.
In the moments where I choose to step back instead of step in.
Because that is where I can hear Him most clearly.
And that is where I am learning to stay.
Warmly,
Kathy
Art of The Crumb
Where I Return Now
I have been thinking a lot lately about prayer.
Not in the way I once understood it…
but in the way it has quietly become part of my life now.
There was a time when I only turned to God when things fell apart.
When my world became chaotic…
when something felt unmanageable…
when I didn’t know where else to go.
That was when I prayed.
I can remember being younger, riding my horse, Pete, by myself.
Bareback.
Just a halter to guide him.
No one else around.
And I would talk to God then.
Not in a structured way.
Not with the right words.
Just…talking.
I grew up in a home that held a lot of tension.
My brother was gay, and while he was accepted fully, it created something in our home that I didn’t yet have language for. I felt it before I could understand it. I carried it before I could name it.
There was anxiety there.
Unspoken.
Unresolved.
And even then…
I knew there was something bigger than me.
Something outside of the situation.
Something I could turn to, even if I didn’t fully understand what that meant.
My dad signed my brother and me up for Bible camp when I was ten.
Bethany Bible Camp in Scotts Valley, California.
Two weeks.
Two weeks of actually opening the Bible, of learning what fellowship meant, of sitting in something that felt different than anything I had experienced before.
We had gone to church growing up, but I didn’t understand it then. It felt distant. We were often separated into rooms where we did crafts about Jesus, but I didn’t yet feel connected to it.
Bible camp was different.
It felt real.
Later, when I attended Santa Clara University, something shifted again.
It was a Jesuit school, and I chose it because it kept me close to home. But what I didn’t expect was how much it would shape my faith.
I began going to Mass every Wednesday night.
It wasn’t formal or rigid the way I had imagined church to be. It was warm. Inviting. Students played guitars. We sang contemporary hymns. It felt safe.
It felt like a place I could belong.
One of my professors, Father Phelan, noticed me.
He pulled me aside one day after class and asked if we could talk.
I remember thinking I was in trouble.
But we didn’t talk about school.
We talked about my faith.
We talked about my relationship with God.
And then he asked me something that stayed with me.
“Miss VandenBerghe, why do you not receive the Holy Communion?”
The answer felt simple to me.
“I’m not Catholic.”
He smiled in a way I’ll never forget. There was a kindness in it, and something else…something knowing.
“You don’t need to be a baptized Catholic to receive the Holy Communion,” he said. “You already have His spirit in you.”
We began meeting during his office hours.
We studied the Bible together.
And that spring, I was baptized at Wednesday night Mass.
My life moved forward in the way life does.
I was married in the church.
We baptized our children.
And as a young mother raising four kids, I found moments where I would drop them off at school and drive to the Catholic Church on North Street in Greenwich, just to sit and pray.
Those moments always brought me peace.
But as life became fuller, busier, louder…
my relationship with God became quieter.
Not gone.
But inconsistent.
I would return to Him when things got hard.
When something broke.
When I didn’t know what to do.
But I didn’t stay.
And I see that clearly now.
Because in this season of my life…
everything has changed.
Grief has a way of stripping things down.
It removes what no longer holds.
It exposes what is real.
And it asks you to build again…from a place that is more honest than before.
This is where my relationship with God deepened.
Not in crisis.
But in consistency.
And strangely…
sourdough became part of that.
Because the practice is the same.
You don’t rush it.
You don’t force it.
You don’t show up only when something has gone wrong.
You show up every day.
You feed it.
You tend to it.
You pay attention.
You stay.
And over time…
something changes.
Not just in the dough.
But in you.
Prayer has become that for me now.
Not something I reach for only when I am overwhelmed.
But something I return to daily.
Quietly.
Consistently.
Before my feet touch the floor.
In the kitchen.
In the middle of the work.
It’s not always words.
It’s not always structured.
But it’s there.
And I’m beginning to understand something I didn’t before.
That faith, like sourdough, is not built in the moments of urgency.
It is built in the moments of return.
In the repetition.
In the attention.
In the willingness to stay, even when nothing feels like it is changing.
Because that is where the transformation happens.
Not in the crisis.
But in the consistency.
And for the first time in my life…
I am not just turning to God when things fall apart.
I am walking with Him in the everyday.
And that…
has changed everything.
Warmly,
Kathy
Art of The Crumb
An Update on the Book
Still Becoming
I’ve been asked quite a bit lately about the book.
Where it is.
When it’s coming.
How it’s going.
And the most honest answer I can give is this:
It’s still becoming.
When I first began writing, I thought I understood what I was creating. I thought it would be something I could sit down, reflect on, and complete from a place of looking back.
But what I didn’t anticipate is that the writing would unfold at the same time as my life.
The story isn’t something I’ve finished living.
It’s something I’m still in.
Because at the same time the book has been taking shape…
Art of The Crumb has grown in ways I never could have planned for.
What began quietly in my kitchen, as something deeply personal, has become something much bigger than I imagined. More people. More connection. More moments that stop me in my tracks and make me ask, what is happening here?
And as that has grown…
so has the story.
The book is no longer just about healing.
It’s about what happens after.
It’s about what happens when something that began as a way to hold yourself together…begins to move outward into the lives of others.
Through bread.
Through conversation.
Through presence.
I’ve been receiving messages from people who have been following along quietly.
People who have picked something back up after years of letting it go.
People who have started something new.
People who have taken a step they weren’t sure they were ready to take.
People who are, in their own way…
finding their sourdough.
And that phrase has taken on a deeper meaning for me.
Because it was never really about bread.
It was about returning.
It was about finding the thing that brings you back to yourself…
and choosing to stay with it.
So the process has taken longer than I thought it would.
Not because the words aren’t there…
but because they are still evolving.
Because I am still evolving.
And I want this book to reflect that honestly.
Not a finished version of something that is still unfolding…
but a true account of what it looks like to live through it.
The plan right now is to launch in late summer…
August or September of 2026.
I’ll share more as that time gets closer.
For now, I’m still here.
Still baking.
Still writing.
Still learning.
Still becoming.
And I’m grateful—deeply grateful—that so many of you are here with me in it.
Warmly,
Kathy
Art of The Crumb
Preparing for What’s Next
The Space Between What Is…And What’s Next
There are moments in this journey where things become very clear.
Not in a loud way.
Not in a “this is exactly what to do” kind of way.
But in a quieter way…
where you realize something has shifted…
and you can’t unsee it.
I received an email recently from the team at Proof Bread after being accepted into their cohort.
There was a line in it that stayed with me.
“At some point, every growing bakery runs into the reality that the physical environment becomes the bottleneck.”
I read that slowly.
Because I felt it.
A friend was here over the July 4th weekend.
He walked into my home…into my kitchen…into what has slowly become something else entirely.
He looked around and said, “wow.”
And I laughed and said, “I know, I know…I live in a bakery.”
But it’s true.
My entire first floor has become a working bakery.
Every surface.
Every corner.
Every inch of space.
And while I am deeply grateful for that…
it has also revealed something I can no longer ignore.
Space is now the limitation.
Not passion.
Not demand.
Not the willingness to show up.
But space.
There are only so many loaves I can bake.
Only so much dough I can mix.
Only so much I can physically hold within the space I have.
And when something begins to grow…
when more people begin to show up…
when the work begins to move beyond what you originally imagined…
You are faced with a question.
What is next?
And when I reach a question like that…
I do what I have learned to do.
I pray.
Not for an answer that arrives all at once.
Not for clarity in a way that removes uncertainty.
But for direction.
For steadiness.
For the next step…even if I can only see part of it.
And in a little over a week…
I will get on a plane and go to Arizona.
To learn.
I don’t go there as someone who has it figured out.
I go as a student.
As someone willing to listen…
to ask questions…
to observe…
to absorb everything I can.
Because what I am stepping into is not something I planned.
This was never a business model.
This was never about profit.
This was about healing.
And yet, here I am.
Standing in a space where something that began as healing…
is now asking to grow.
And the question I carry with me is this:
How do I grow this…
without losing what made it meaningful in the first place?
Because that is the most important part.
Not the scaling.
Not the systems.
Not the output.
But the integrity of what has been built.
So when I go to Arizona, I will bring a few things with me.
An open heart and an open mind.
A willingness to be stretched.
A deep sense of gratitude for the opportunity to learn.
And a lot of questions.
Am I nervous?
Absolutely.
Because “what’s next” isn’t something I planned for.
But I am learning that not everything that matters is planned.
Some things are revealed…one step at a time.
And maybe this is the path.
Maybe the healing was never meant to stop with me.
Maybe creating something that connects people…
that nourishes them…
that reminds them they are not alone…
is part of something bigger than I understood in the beginning.
So I will go.
I will learn.
I will listen.
And I will trust that the same faith that brought me here…
will carry me forward.
Warmly,
Kathy
Art of The Crumb
My Compass
Lately, I have been thinking a lot about what guides me.
Not in a grand way.
But in the quiet moments…
the ones where decisions don’t feel obvious
and the next step isn’t clear.
There is so much in motion right now.
Growth.
Opportunity.
Demand.
And with all of it comes questions.
What do I do next?
How do I expand?
What do I say yes to…
and what do I protect?
And yet, in the middle of all of it, I keep coming back to something simple.
As exhausting as this work is…
I love every single moment.
That feeling.
It doesn’t shout.
It doesn’t push.
But it is steady.
It shows up in the early mornings.
In the quiet of the kitchen.
In the rhythm of the dough beneath my hands.
And I’m beginning to understand…
That feeling is my compass.
There was a time in my life when I didn’t have that.
When I was searching.
Trying to make sense of grief.
Trying to understand loss.
Trying to find my footing in a life that no longer looked the way I thought it would.
And somewhere in that searching…
I found sourdough.
Or maybe…
it found me.
“Find your sourdough.”
I say that often.
But what I mean is this:
Find the thing that brings you back to yourself.
The thing that grounds you.
That steadies you.
That gives you rhythm when everything else feels uncertain.
For me, it became this work.
This life.
This way of showing up.
But even now, there are moments where I don’t know what to do.
Moments where the path ahead feels too big.
Too undefined.
Too much.
And when that happens, I hear my uncle’s voice.
“When you don’t know what to do…do nothing.”
At first, that felt counterintuitive.
We are taught to act.
To decide.
To move.
But I am learning something different.
There is wisdom in the pause.
In sitting with it.
In not rushing the answer.
In praying.
In listening.
In allowing clarity to come…instead of forcing it.
Because when I slow down…
When I return to my faith…
When I place it in God’s hands instead of trying to control it myself…
The next step reveals itself.
Not all at once.
But enough.
Grief taught me that.
That not everything can be fixed.
That not everything can be rushed.
That some things must be carried…until they begin to transform.
And maybe that’s what this is.
Not just building something.
But becoming something.
So for now…
I will keep showing up.
I will keep baking.
I will keep listening to that quiet, steady feeling that tells me I am where I am meant to be.
Because I trust it now.
That pull.
That peace.
That knowing.
It’s my compass.
Warmly~
Kathy
Art of The Crumb
Capacity
When Growth Meets Its Edge
I have been thinking a lot lately about capacity.
Not just how much I can bake.
Not just how many loaves I can produce.
But what I can actually hold.
Physically.
Emotionally.
Spiritually.
Because something is shifting.
When More Becomes Too Much
This journey has grown in ways I never expected.
More people.
More orders.
More demand.
And on the surface, that sounds like exactly what you hope for when you begin something.
But here is the part no one really talks about:
There comes a moment when growth begins to press against your edges.
And you realize…
You can’t do it all.
The Weight of Yes
I feel it when I read messages asking for bread outside my bake days.
I feel it when someone walks away without the loaf they came for.
I feel it when I say yes…
knowing that every yes carries weight.
Because this has never just been about baking.
It’s about people.
Connection.
Trust.
And when someone reaches out, there is a part of me that wants to meet every single one of them exactly where they are.
The Need for Boundaries
But I am learning something in this season.
Boundaries are not a limitation.
They are a necessity.
Without them, the work I love…
becomes something I struggle to carry.
Without them, I lose the very thing that makes this meaningful.
The intention.
The care.
The connection.
The Bridge I Can See…But Haven’t Crossed Yet
I know there is a “next.”
I can feel it.
A larger space.
More ovens.
More capacity.
Something that allows this work to grow beyond what my current space can hold.
But that “next” feels big.
Really big.
And I find myself standing here…
Holding what I have built
while looking toward something I don’t fully understand yet.
Standing in Between
This is the in-between.
Where what you have created is no longer small…
but not yet fully expanded.
Where the demand is real…
but the structure hasn’t caught up.
Where you are asked to make decisions that don’t have easy answers.
What I Am Learning to Hold
So here is where I am today.
Learning to hold both.
The growth…
and the limits.
The opportunity…
and the responsibility.
The desire to give more…
and the wisdom to protect what already exists.
Faith in the Next Step
Next week, I step into something new.
The Proof Intensive.
And I am hopeful.
Not because I expect all the answers…
But because I am willing to keep learning.
To listen.
To grow into whatever this next step is meant to be.
And For Now
For now, I stay here.
Present.
Grateful.
Continuing to show up in the way I know how.
Trusting that the same faith that brought me here…
will carry me forward.
Warmly~
Kathy
Art of The Crumb
Work Flow
When Overwhelm Became Order
I have found that journaling has led me somewhere I didn’t expect.
Planning.
What started as writing down thoughts slowly became writing down my week.
A bake schedule.
How many loaves am I bringing to market?
How many inclusion loaves?
How many English muffins?
How many Cowboy Cookies?
At one point, it all began to feel overwhelming.
And then, without even realizing it…
I created a workflow.
Wednesday: Feeding & Mise en Place
Wednesdays are for building the foundation.
I feed my starters—several of them now, in large containers, each one active and growing in my kitchen.
One in particular is fed with a blend of organic bread flour and organic rye flour. This is the starter that creates my rye loaves.
The aroma alone takes you somewhere familiar…like stepping into a New York delicatessen. Warm rye, nutty and rich, layered with the kind of depth that holds its own without being heavy. It has quietly become a market favorite.
Alongside feeding my starters, I prepare my mise en place.
Every batch is scaled in advance.
Flour and salt are weighed and set into bins.
Everything is ready for the next day.
This step alone has changed everything.
It creates efficiency.
It creates calm.
Thursday: Mixing & Bulk Fermentation
Thursdays are dough days.
The most physically demanding day of my week.
This is when all doughs are mixed:
English muffin dough.
Inclusion loaves.
Base sourdough.
Each dough is developed and then moved into bulk fermentation.
From there, it becomes a rhythm of:
stretch and folds
coil folds
monitoring fermentation
watching the dough respond
I place large notes on each bin, marking timing for every stage:
When to fold.
When to rest.
When to pre-shape and shape.
This is where instinct meets structure.
Where I read the dough…while still honoring the discipline that allows consistency.
Friday Night: Cold Retard & Bake
By Friday, the shaped loaves have gone into cold retard.
This slow fermentation develops flavor, structure, and depth.
Friday night becomes bake night.
An overnight process.
Scoring.
Loading the oven.
Steam.
Rotation.
The world is quiet.
But the work continues.
By morning, the bread is baked, cooled, and ready to be packed.
Saturday: Market Day
Sleep is minimal—two to three hours.
I wake around 4:00am to reset.
By 5:30am, the car is loaded and I’m on the road.
Setup begins at 6:00am.
Two hours to create something that matters deeply to me:
A space.
Not just a table.
A place where people feel what I’ve created.
The aesthetics are not separate from the bread.
They are an extension of it.
8:00am–12:00pm: The Exchange
Market opens at 8:00am.
And this is where everything comes together.
The bread.
The people.
The conversations.
This is no longer production.
This is connection.
The Return
At noon, it closes.
I break down the booth, pack the car, go home…
and sleep.
What I’ve Learned
This workflow didn’t come from a book.
It came from how I was raised.
From a father who believed in discipline, in showing up, in doing things the right way even when no one was watching. From long days growing up in California, from 4-H and early lessons in responsibility, in caring for something outside of myself.
It was shaped in my years as a mother—feeding my children, caring for them, learning that love often looks like preparation, consistency, and quiet sacrifice.
It was strengthened through my faith. Through sobriety. Through learning how to live one day at a time, with intention and gratitude for the life I’ve been given.
And somewhere along the way, all of that found its way here.
Into the rhythm.
Into the structure.
Into the way I move through this work.
What I’ve come to understand is this:
Structure creates freedom.
Because when the work is ordered and intentional…
It allows me to be fully present in what matters most.
The people.
Warmly~
Kathy
Art of The Crumb
Grief
Naming What Came
I think I’d like to write about something I experienced yesterday.
Something important to recognize…to name…to process…and to share.
Yesterday would have been my brother’s birthday.
My only sibling.
He would have been 68.
I woke up thinking about him.
Not deeply…just a passing thought.
And then I did what I do every morning.
Thank you, God, for another day of sobriety.
Thank you for allowing me to serve my community.
Thank you for another day of life.
When It Doesn’t Pass
But as the day went on, something shifted.
My brother stayed with me.
He tugged at my heart in a way I couldn’t ignore.
There was dough to make for market.
Work to be done.
But no matter how much I tried to move through the day…
I could feel him.
If I’ve learned anything over the past few years, it’s this:
I cannot push feelings away.
I have to acknowledge them.
Name them.
Say them out loud.
And walk through them.
So I asked God to help me.
And He did.
What the Dough Taught Me
It happened in the dough.
Fourteen hours of mixing, folding, shaping.
Fourteen hours with my hands in something living…
and my heart holding something that wasn’t.
And somewhere in that rhythm…
I understood something I’ve been learning, slowly, over the past year.
Grief does not go away.
It doesn’t disappear with time or soften into something neat and contained.
It remains.
But it changes shape.
And when we allow it—when we don’t run from it, when we don’t try to silence it—
it begins to move.
Through us.
Not to break us…
but to open us.
Who He Was
My brother was three years older than me.
A gentle soul who never hurt another human being.
He was a free spirit.
Creative.
Caring.
Funny.
We laughed constantly when we were together.
He was a dancer.
An incredible athlete.
We shared a love of horses and being in nature.
He loved his friends fiercely.
He would give his last dime to someone in need.
And in all the years I knew him, I never heard him say an unkind word about another person.
He was also gay.
And he was a victim of AIDS.
His ending was not something any of us expected.
But that is not where I choose to stay.
I choose to remember who he was.
What Do We Do With the Love?
For fourteen hours yesterday, I worked the dough…
and carried him with me.
And somewhere between the folds and the shaping, I found myself asking a question I’ve carried for a long time:
What do we do with the love we have for someone who is no longer here?
Because we don’t stop loving them.
That doesn’t end.
So where does it go?
What I Am Learning
What I am learning…slowly, and sometimes painfully…is this:
We don’t get over the loss of someone we loved deeply.
We learn how to live with it.
And maybe more than that…
we learn how to carry that love forward.
To place it somewhere.
To give it expression.
To let it move through us in a way that still reaches others.
Through Service
For me, that place has become this work.
The bread.
The hands in the dough.
The people at the table.
Stepping outside of myself…even when my heart feels heavy…
and serving someone else.
Offering something simple.
Something made with care.
And in doing that…
something begins to shift.
Not all at once.
But enough.
Enough to feel a little lighter.
Enough to feel connected again.
Enough to know that the love I carry for him did not disappear.
Woven In
Yesterday, that love was woven into every loaf.
Not in a way anyone could see.
But in a way I could feel.
And maybe that’s what this is.
Grief…
faith…
service…
All finding a place to meet.
And Maybe…
Maybe, if we are willing to stay with it…
If we are willing to feel it instead of run from it…
If we are willing to place that love somewhere…
It doesn’t just stay inside of us.
It becomes something we can give.
Warmly~
Kathy
Art of The Crumb
My Why
It Was Never Just About the Bread
I’ve been asked, in different ways, why I do this.
Why the early mornings.
Why the long days.
Why the commitment to something that, on the surface, looks like flour, water, and time.
For a while, I don’t know that I could fully answer that.
Because it has been unfolding as I go.
The Moment It Was Reflected Back
Recently, I received a message from someone who has been part of this journey from the beginning.
Someone who gave me my very first opportunity to share Art of The Crumb with this community.
She wrote:
“You carry a peace that fills the room.”
I paused when I read that.
Because if I’m honest…that is what I am trying to build.
Not just bread.
Not just something to sell.
But something people can feel.
The Bread Is the Beginning
There was another moment this week.
A mom called me.
We talked for twenty minutes.
Not just about bread…
but about her family.
She told me her children will only eat my bread.
She ordered five loaves, and now each Saturday, I’ll set them aside for her.
But what lingered wasn’t the order.
It was the conversation.
She asked about my vacation.
She asked if I felt rested…ready for the rest of the summer and the markets ahead.
We talked about ingredients.
About what it means to feed your family something clean.
Something intentional.
Something you trust.
And in that moment, it became very clear…
This is what I am building.
The Reach I Didn’t Expect
I’ve also received messages from people who have been following along quietly.
A friend who picked up sketching again after years.
Another friend who shared that he is now the proud caretaker of a sourdough starter and is preparing to bake his very first loaf.
And then a message from a pastor in Santa Barbara:
“Your ‘bread of life’ ministry has given me the example to bake bread and share it around to neighbors and friends. God is using you and your ministry. Your life is like a Bible that so many who know you are reading, and it is building their faith.”
I read those words slowly.
Not as something to hold onto…
but as something to receive with care.
What I Am Beginning to Understand
This was never about building something big.
It was never about scale or numbers or recognition.
It has always been about showing up.
Consistently.
Honestly.
Faithfully.
And allowing whatever comes from that…to come.
My Why
My why is this:
To create something that nourishes more than hunger.
To build connection in a world that feels increasingly disconnected.
To offer something real, something intentional, something made with care.
To show that beginning again is possible.
At any age.
In any season.
To live my faith in a way that doesn’t need to be spoken loudly…
but can be felt.
And Still…
At the end of the day, I go back to the kitchen.
Back to the dough.
Back to the rhythm.
Because that is where it all begins.
And where, somehow…
It continues to grow.
Warmly~
Kathy
Art of The Crumb
When It Becomes More Than Bread
When Others Begin Again
Something has been happening lately that I’ve been quietly sitting with.
Messages.
From people I’ve known for years…
and from those who have simply been following along from a distance.
And each one, in its own way, has said something similar.
“You’ve inspired me to start again.”
“I’ve picked up something I once loved.”
“I’m trying something new.”
One dear friend shared that he has started sketching again after years of letting it sit quietly on the shelf.
Another message came from a pastor in Santa Barbara. He wrote:
“Your ‘bread of life’ ministry has given me the example to bake bread and share it around to neighbors and friends. God is using you and your ministry. Your life is like a Bible that so many who know you are reading, and it is building their faith. Keep working dear sister at sharing the love of God through sourdough.”
And then, almost as a gentle afterthought:
“Oh, hey, I forgot to mention that I am now the proud caretaker of a sourdough starter! Sometime next week I am going to attempt to bake my first loaf! Fingers crossed.”
I read that message more than once.
Not because I was looking for affirmation…
but because I felt the weight of it.
Something I Didn’t Set Out to Do
When I began this journey, I didn’t set out to inspire anyone.
I wasn’t trying to build something others would follow.
I was simply trying to find my footing again.
To rebuild something in my own life that had been lost.
To find rhythm.
To find purpose.
To find peace.
And sourdough became the place where that began.
What Is Being Shared
What I am beginning to understand is this:
It’s not really about the bread.
It’s about what the bread represents.
Showing up.
Starting again.
Trying something, even when you’re unsure.
Letting something grow, slowly, over time.
And maybe, more than anything…
trusting that something small can become something meaningful.
Faith in the Everyday
If there is anything being reflected back to me through these messages, it is this:
God works in the ordinary.
In flour and water.
In early mornings.
In small, consistent acts of showing up.
Not in grand gestures.
But in quiet faithfulness.
Receiving It Gently
I don’t take these messages as something I’ve done.
I receive them as something I’ve been allowed to be a part of.
A reminder that when we live honestly…
when we share openly…
when we simply keep going…
it reaches people.
Sometimes in ways we never see.
Find Your Sourdough
When I say “find your sourdough,” this is what I mean.
Not the bread.
But the thing that calls you back.
The thing you’ve been thinking about starting again.
The thing that feels small…maybe even insignificant.
It might be sketching.
It might be baking.
It might be something entirely different.
But it matters.
And if this journey has done anything…
I hope it’s this:
That it reminds someone, somewhere, that it’s not too late to begin again.
Warmly~
Kathy
Art of The Crumb
Something Is Taking Root
The Feeling That Stopped Me
While baking and preparing for Saturday’s market, I was standing at the counter with my hands deep in the dough.
Flour dusted across the surface.
The dough soft, alive, stretching beneath my fingers as I folded it over itself.
There’s a rhythm to it…
press, lift, fold, turn.
And right there, in the middle of that movement, something shifted.
A wave of feeling came over me—so strong I had to stop.
My hands paused mid-fold, resting on the dough as if it could hold what I was feeling.
It wasn’t just one emotion.
It was a flood.
Joy.
Gratitude.
Excitement.
Peace.
Love.
They came all at once, rising up from somewhere deep, unexpected and undeniable.
I stepped back, wiped my hands, and wrote them down.
Because it felt important.
Too important to let pass.
Naming What Is Forming
I stood there for a moment longer, the kitchen quiet except for the soft creak of the house and the hum of the oven warming.
The dough waited.
And so did I.
Because something in me knew…this wasn’t just about baking anymore.
The work I am doing is becoming something deeper than work.
There is something forming inside of me.
Not rushed.
Not forced.
But steady.
Like the dough beneath my hands.
Maybe it is becoming.
Maybe it is peace.
Maybe it is landing.
Whatever it is, I can feel it taking shape.
The People Who Show Up
Later, at the market, that same feeling stayed with me.
It moved from my kitchen…to my table…to the people who stood in front of me.
An older couple approached.
You could see it in their faces before they even spoke—hope mixed with expectation.
They had come for the rye.
Two loaves.
They told me they had brought it home the week before and couldn’t stop talking about it. They were on their way to Texas to visit their daughter and wanted to bring it with them…something to share, something to pass along.
And I didn’t have it.
I watched their faces shift.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
A quiet disappointment.
And I felt it immediately.
It landed in my chest in a way I wasn’t expecting.
Because this has never just been about bread.
It’s about what people carry with them.
What they share.
What connects them.
I promised them I would have their loaves next time.
But as they walked away, I stood there for a moment longer than usual.
Feeling it.
The Other Side of Giving
Not long after, a woman came to the table.
She moved slowly, taking it all in.
I offered her a sample.
Then another.
She smiled, asked questions, lingered.
Her hands rested lightly on the table as she spoke, like she wasn’t quite ready to leave.
Then she asked about the price.
And in that moment, I knew.
She told me she didn’t have enough…that she would come back.
But I could feel it.
So I reached for a loaf, placed it in her hands, and said it was my gift.
It wasn’t planned.
It wasn’t a decision I thought through.
It just felt right.
And she received it with a kind of quiet gratitude that stayed with me long after she walked away.
Familiar Rhythms
Then there were the familiar faces.
The woman who comes every Saturday for baguettes.
This time, she brought her sister.
And friends.
There’s a rhythm to that, too.
People returning.
Bringing others.
Sharing something they’ve found.
The bread bags—once again—moved quickly from the table, one after another, hands reaching, conversations flowing.
And yes…
By the end of the morning, I had sold out.
But It’s Not About That
I packed up slowly.
Not rushed.
Not driven by the numbers.
Because it’s not about that for me.
Not really.
What is evolving is something I never expected when I began this journey.
Something I couldn’t have planned, even if I tried.
Find Your Sourdough
This is the part I mean when I say:
Find your sourdough.
Not the bread.
But the thing.
The thing that meets you where you are…
and gently, steadily, brings you back to yourself.
For me, it started with flour and water.
But it became something else.
A rhythm.
A practice.
A place to land when everything else felt uncertain.
And somewhere in that process…
Something in me began to heal.
What I Know Now
There is something taking root.
Not just in the dough I shape each week…
but in me.
In the quiet moments.
In the exchanges at the table.
In the giving and receiving.
And for the first time in a long time…
I feel it.
I am not searching.
I am not striving.
I am here.
Warmly~
Kathy
Art of The Crumb
Validation
What Are We Really Seeking?
I have been thinking a lot lately about validation.
The Oxford dictionary defines it as the action of checking or proving the validity or accuracy of something. It also defines it as recognition or affirmation that a person, or their feelings or opinions, are valid or worthwhile.
To me, it feels like a very adult word.
Something we strive for as full-grown adults…looking for affirmation that we are on the right path. That we are doing the “right thing.” Personally. Spiritually. Professionally. Even in our most intimate relationships.
We are always, in some way, seeking validation.
Where It Begins
As children, we seek validation first from our parents.
Then, as we grow and develop, we begin to look for it everywhere else.
Siblings.
Peers.
Teachers.
Co-workers.
It shows up in grades.
In being accepted into groups.
In invitations.
In promotions.
In salaries.
The world offers countless ways for us to measure whether we are “enough.”
The Deeper Layer
But there is another layer to this.
We seek validation in the form of love.
I hear this often in therapy, and in the rooms of AA:
“Were you validated as a child?”
And to me, that question translates to something much simpler:
Did you feel loved?
Were you cared for?
Were your needs met?
Because at its core, that is what forms us.
When Validation Is Missing
When that validation is missing, or inconsistent, or confusing…we don’t stop seeking it.
We just begin looking for it in different places.
In people.
In work.
In achievement.
In approval.
We begin to build our lives around trying to feel something we may not have fully received.
And sometimes, we don’t even realize we’re doing it.
Sourdough Taught Me Something Different
Somewhere along my journey, sourdough entered my life.
At first, it was just bread.
Flour. Water. Salt. Starter.
But over time, it became something else.
It became a practice.
A rhythm.
A place where I learned to stop looking outward…and start paying attention inward.
Sourdough does not respond to urgency.
It does not respond to pressure.
It does not respond to comparison.
It responds to care.
To consistency.
To patience.
You cannot rush it.
You cannot force it.
You simply show up, tend to it, and trust the process.
Faith and the Quiet Shift
At the same time, my faith deepened.
Not in a loud or performative way.
But in the quiet, daily practice of beginning my day with gratitude…thanking God for another day of sobriety before my feet even touch the floor.
That became my foundation.
And slowly, something began to shift.
I wasn’t looking for validation the way I once had.
Because I was no longer trying to prove something.
I was learning to live it.
When Validation Shows Up Anyway
And then…something happens.
You’re just doing the work.
Showing up.
Staying consistent.
Not chasing recognition.
And then, unexpectedly, it finds you.
Recently, I was accepted into the Proof Intensive cohort.
A space where you don’t just sign up…you apply, you are considered, and you are chosen.
And in the message I received, they said:
“You’ve already done something many people only talk about doing…you’ve started.”
That landed.
Because I wasn’t seeking that affirmation.
But when it came, it felt different.
Not like something I needed.
But like something that confirmed what I already knew.
What I Know Now
Validation, as I once understood it, felt like something I had to earn.
Something I had to search for.
Something that would tell me I was finally enough.
But what I am learning now is this:
When you are rooted in your faith…
when you are grounded in your daily practice…
when you are living in alignment with what you are called to do…
You don’t need validation in the same way.
Because you are no longer asking the world to tell you who you are.
You already know.
And Still…
There is something beautiful about being seen.
Not because you need it.
But because it reminds you:
You’re on the path.
Warmly~
Kathy
Art of The Crumb
What is a Cohort?
I had never heard the term before.
When I was first asked to apply, I remember thinking…
What exactly is a cohort?
I almost didn’t do it.
Not because I wasn’t interested, but because I wasn’t sure if it was “for me.”
I’m just here…baking my bread, showing up at market, learning as I go.
But something nudged me forward.
So I leaned into my faith.
I filled out the application, hit send, said a prayer…
and left it there.
I just returned from a trip to California, spending time with family, when I opened my email.
And there it was.
We’d love to offer you a seat in our July 18–20 Intensive.
I had to sit with that for a moment.
Because it wasn’t just a response.
It was an invitation.
This cohort is called the Proof Intensive.
It’s an in-person, hands-on, three-day apprenticeship hosted by the founders of Proof Bread in the Phoenix, Arizona area.
But it’s not about recipes.
It’s not about learning how to bake sourdough.
It’s about something much deeper.
The Proof Intensive is designed for micro-bakery owners, cottage bakers, and those who feel called to build something of their own.
It teaches the realities of running a sustainable bakery.
The things you don’t always see.
production flow
scaling
systems
space
staffing
and what it actually takes to grow something from where it is…into what it can become
You don’t just sign up.
You apply.
You are considered.
You are chosen.
I was encouraged to apply by someone I deeply respect—someone who understands both the craft of baking and the importance of building community.
That alone made me pause.
And then I read the words they wrote back to me:
“What stood out to me is that you've already done something many people only talk about doing: you've started. You're selling, showing up at markets, building wholesale relationships, and creating a real brand around your bakery. That's a very different place to be than someone who is still dreaming about it.”
I had to read that more than once.
Because when you’re in it—
the early mornings, the long days, the constant learning—
it doesn’t feel like something to stop and acknowledge.
It just feels like…what you do.
But to have someone step into your world, look at what you’ve been building, and say:
We see you.
That lands differently.
They spoke about growth.
About space becoming a limitation.
About the reality that every bakery eventually outgrows the place it began.
And I felt that.
Deeply.
Because that’s exactly where I am.
For a long time, this has been something I’ve been building quietly.
One loaf at a time.
One market at a time.
One relationship at a time.
Not rushing.
Not forcing.
Just showing up.
And now, I’ve said yes.
Yes to learning.
Yes to being stretched.
Yes to stepping into what comes next.
This isn’t about leaving behind what I’ve built.
It’s about honoring it enough to grow it well.
So…what is a cohort?
I’m still learning.
But from where I stand today, it feels like this:
A place where people who are doing the work come together to learn how to do it better.
A space where experience meets possibility.
A moment where someone says…you’re ready for the next step.
Sometimes, when you are simply doing the work…
when you are showing up, staying consistent, staying true to your process…
someone sees you.
Not for what you say you’re going to do.
But for what you are already doing.
And that acknowledgment?
It doesn’t change the work.
But it does something else.
It quietly affirms:
You’re on the path.
Warmly,
Kathy
Art of The Crumb
How I Begin Before I Bake
Before my feet even touch the floor, I begin.
It’s quiet.
Still.
That moment between sleep and the day ahead.
And in that space, I thank God for another day of sobriety.
Not in a grand way.
Not with a long prayer.
Just a simple acknowledgment…
Thank you.
It is the first thing I do.
And it sets the tone for everything that follows.
There was a time in my life when my days began very differently.
Rushed. Unsteady. Uncertain of what the day might hold or how I would meet it.
But now…
I begin with gratitude.
And that one small act grounds me in a way nothing else can.
After that, I move into my morning rhythm.
Coffee.
Scripture.
Journaling.
I write out a gratitude list—not because I have to, but because I need to remember.
To remember what is good.
To remember what is steady.
To remember what has been given, even on the days that feel uncertain.
It brings me back to center.
And then…eventually…
I make my way into the kitchen.
This morning, it was 144 Cowboy Cookies.
What used to take me an entire day—mixing, baking, rotating trays, managing time and temperature—now takes less than an hour with my Simply Bread Co. oven.
Less time.
More efficiency.
But something important has not changed.
The way I begin.
Because what happens before the oven turns on…
matters more than what happens inside of it.
The intention.
The grounding.
The gratitude.
That carries into everything I make.
Every batch.
Every loaf.
Every cookie.
Today, as I stood in my kitchen, trays of cookies cooling in front of me, I felt it again.
Gratitude.
For this work.
For this little bakery.
For the ability to do something with my hands that feeds people in a way that feels meaningful.
For the journey that brought me here.
Owning and operating this bakery isn’t something I take lightly.
It is something I hold with care.
Because I know where I came from.
And I know what it took to get here.
So before I bake…
I begin.
With gratitude.
And that, more than anything, is what shapes what I make.
Warmly~
Kathy
Art of The Crumb
Bread Culture
The Conversation at My Market Table
This weekend, my son sent me an article about glyphosate being found in several popular store bought breads.
I read it, thought about it for a moment, and then went on with my day.
A few hours later, I was standing behind my table at Farmers Market when one of my returning customers stopped by.
The week before, she had purchased a few of my sandwich loaves. This week, she returned for more.
Not one loaf.
Three.
She told me her children loved them.
Then she smiled and asked if I had seen an article about glyphosate in commercial breads.
The very same article my son had sent me earlier that day.
For the next ten minutes, we stood there talking about bread.
Not just my bread.
Bread.
Ingredients.
Labels.
Processing.
The things we assume are healthy.
The things we discover may not be.
At one point she said something that stayed with me.
"I'll only buy bread from you from now on."
I thanked her, of course, but what struck me wasn't the compliment.
It was what I think she was really saying.
She was looking for trust.
Something Is Changing
I have noticed something happening over the past several weeks at market.
People are returning.
Not just for bread.
For specific breads.
Last Saturday, several customers came looking for my seeded loaf.
Not sourdough.
The seeded loaf.
Others ask when I am bringing rye.
Some ask for sandwich loaves.
Others want baguettes.
At first, I thought they were simply finding their favorites.
Now I think something deeper may be happening.
People are beginning to pay attention.
More Than Ingredients
The article my son shared discussed glyphosate, a widely used herbicide that has become the subject of growing public discussion.
What I find most interesting is not the debate itself.
It is the curiosity.
People are reading labels.
Researching ingredients.
Asking questions.
Wanting to know where their food comes from.
For decades, bread has largely been treated as a commodity.
Something to grab from a shelf.
Something inexpensive.
Something convenient.
Something that required very little thought.
Now I find myself having conversations with customers about fermentation, flour, ingredients, and process.
People want to know what is in their food.
And perhaps more importantly, what isn't.
The Rise of Bread Culture
The phrase came to me this week.
Bread culture.
Not in the sourdough starter sense.
In the human sense.
A culture of people rediscovering bread.
A culture of people learning that one loaf is not the same as another.
A culture of people appreciating craftsmanship.
A culture of people slowing down enough to notice.
I see it every Saturday.
A customer who asks questions.
A customer who tastes a seeded loaf for the first time.
A customer who returns because their family loved a sandwich loaf.
A customer who discovers that bread can be made with flour, water, salt, and time.
What excites me most is that these conversations are happening one person at a time.
Not through advertising.
Not through marketing.
But through connection.
What Bread Has Always Done
Bread has always brought people together.
For centuries, it has gathered families around tables, welcomed strangers into homes, and nourished communities.
Maybe what we are witnessing now is not something new at all.
Maybe we are simply returning to something we forgot.
A loaf of bread is never just a loaf of bread.
Behind it is a farmer.
A miller.
A baker.
A process.
A story.
And perhaps what people are really hungry for isn't bread alone.
Perhaps they are hungry for connection to the things they consume and the people who make them.
If that's true, then maybe this little movement happening at my market table isn't about sourdough at all.
Maybe it is the beginning of a bread culture.
And I have to admit, I am grateful to witness it.
P.S. This post isn't about telling anyone what they should or shouldn't eat. It's about something I've noticed happening at my market table. More and more people are asking questions about ingredients, sourcing, and how their food is made. I think curiosity is a good thing. The more connected we become to our food, the more intentional our choices can be.
Warmly~
Kathy
Art of The Crumb
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