Another Rainy Market

Some mornings ask a quiet question before the day has even begun.

Will you show up?

This morning was one of those mornings.

It would have been so easy to cancel.

Message the market manager and simply say, "I won't be attending market today."

Kenny has always made it clear to the vendors that attendance isn't mandatory. If the weather feels unsafe or you simply don't want to take the chance, staying home is always an option.

This morning certainly felt like one of those mornings.

The forecast couldn't make up its mind. One moment there was a 30% chance of rain. The next it was 75%, with intermittent thunderstorms.

I packed my car in the rain.

I drove to market in the rain.

I arrived...in the rain.

I sat in my car for a few minutes, looking through the windshield, feeling the weight of the decision.

Part of me wanted to send the text.

"I won't be there today."

But I didn't.

Not because I was thinking about nearly one hundred loaves of bread.

Not because I had over two hundred English muffins packed and ready to go.

Not even because I had baked my very first Heritage Khorasan loaves.

Although those loaves had already become something far more meaningful to me than bread.

Just last weekend, I was introduced to Khorasan during the Proof Bread Intensive in Arizona. It is an ancient grain that has remained remarkably unchanged over thousands of years, carrying with it a rich, buttery flavor and a story that reaches back generations. I came home eager to learn from it, but somewhere along the way, it began teaching me instead.

As the dough fermented, the aroma filled my kitchen unlike anything I had ever experienced. After shaping the loaves, the evening light quietly found them. It made me pause. I found myself simply standing there, taking it all in before reaching for my camera.

That photograph has already become one of my Stones of Remembrance.

Not because of the bread itself.

But because it reminded me that beauty often appears quietly...if we're willing to pause long enough to notice it.

By the time I arrived at market this morning, those loaves felt like much more than a new offering.

They felt like part of my story.

Not long after I opened my booth, a woman walked up wearing her rain gear.

She pointed directly at the Khorasan loaf.

"Is this it?" she asked with a smile.

"Is this the new loaf?"

I don't know how to explain what I felt in that moment.

She had been following along.

Following the journey.

Reading the stories.

Waiting for this loaf.

We stood there talking for nearly twenty minutes.

Not just about bread.

About ancient grains.

About flour.

About how our food has changed over the years.

About the beauty of returning to something that has remained remarkably close to its original form.

Before she left, she thanked me for bringing the loaf to market.

She bought one.

But that's not what I'll remember.

I'll remember the way I felt when she pointed to that loaf and asked,

"Is this it?"

Because in that moment I realized something.

She wasn't simply buying bread.

She had become part of the journey.

She had watched this loaf come into being before she ever held it in her hands.

As I packed up this afternoon, I found myself thinking about how close I came to staying home.

Had I done that...

I would have missed that conversation.

I would have missed meeting her.

I would have missed the quiet reminder that showing up often has less to do with the weather than it does with being open to whatever the day might bring.

I've been learning lately to ask a different question when plans don't unfold the way I expect.

What if this delay is Grace?

Today, I found myself asking a similar question.

What if showing up is Grace?

Not because every market ends with a beautiful story.

But because sometimes the simple decision to show up allows us to receive one.

Warmly,

Kathy
Art of The Crumb