I remember bouncing through the doors, my backpack weighing down my shoulders, and the scent of freshly-baked bread wafting through my childhood home. I remember sitting down to dinner, all the food made from scratch by my grandma, with a harvest gold Tupperware sitting on our table to my right. My little brother sits across from me, and my grandma is next to him while my dad sits at the head. We sing "God Our Father" before passing around plates and spoonfuls of good, old fashioned Southern delicacies. I open the Tupperware, and the treasure inside is still steaming -- my grandma's bread. Every meal, day after day, night after night, until we eventually and regrettably ran out, we'd share a loaf of her sourdough together. Growing up, this is what I knew sourdough to be.

I remember the calls from church, from family, from friends, all asking for some of that bread. And I remember my grandma sitting me down, soon after she found out she was sick, and teaching me how to make and tend the starter. Oh how I remember hating it and how I'd much rather have been watching my favorite TV shows instead of sitting at the kitchen table listening to my grandma give me the secrets to her version of the recipe. And oh how I'd give anything to go back to that day and listen to her complain about great aunt Mary trying to pass off the recipe as her own. But out of all the things I regret from her passing, the one thing I hold onto is having the right mind to grab her recipe boxes and annotated cookbooks.

I made her bread for the first time as a freshman in college. And again a few years later. And once more soon after I had my own children. And with each cycle of starter and sourdough, the scent and taste brings me back to that day. And even though she isn't here to witness my triumphs, failures, forgetfulness and remembrance, I hope and pray that she looks down on every bake day with pride. Because even though my friends and family refer to it as "my" bread, I'll always know it as hers, and the least I can do in her memory is to share that love of family tradition and Southern cuisine with my neighbors around me.

Before Kindred Crumb ever came to life, I found myself at the center of those phone calls from before -- whether it was for the bread itself, or for my own rendition of brownies, cookies, and cakes. I guess you could say I'd found my calling, so here it is, folks. It's exactly what you've been asking for: homemade treats straight from the hearth. From my family to yours, please enjoy this little piece of heritage, and help us share this legacy at the community table.