Fueled by Flour: How My Passion for Bread Took Over My Life

Fueled by Flour: How My Passion for Bread Took Over My Life

I’ve lost track of how many hours I’ve spent in the kitchen—kneading, folding, waiting, and watching dough rise. Flour seems to coat everything I own at this point: my countertops, my apron, my phone case, and even the floor. What began as a way to ease stress has become something much bigger—an obsession, a craft, and, honestly, a love story between me and the beautiful unpredictability of dough.

When I first started baking, I wasn’t looking for relaxation—I was drawn to the challenge. Getting a loaf just right felt like solving a puzzle I couldn’t put down. Every bake offered something to figure out: the temperature of the water, the strength of the starter, and how long to ferment before shaping. The smallest details made all the difference. I loved experimenting, adjusting, testing—trying to coax the perfect rise and flavor from a handful of simple ingredients. And when that first truly great loaf came out of the oven, with its crackling crust and open, airy crumb, I knew I was hooked.

Thousands of Grams, Endless Experiments

Since then, I’ve gone through thousands of grams of flour—each gram part of a lesson learned. My notebooks are filled with scribbles about hydration percentages, proofing times, and starter behavior. I’ve baked in the middle of the night, woken up at dawn to catch the right fermentation window, and pushed my poor oven to its limits more times than I can count.

Some loaves were perfect—golden, airy, alive. Others were dense, over-proofed, or stubbornly flat. But every one of them taught me something new. Baking has a funny way of humbling you. You can think you’ve mastered it, and then one day, the weather changes or your flour acts differently, and you’re right back at square one. And yet, I wouldn’t trade that for anything.

From My Kitchen to My Community

Over time, friends started asking for loaves. Then neighbors. Then people I didn’t even know. Before I realized it, what had started as stress relief had turned into something more—a quiet mission to share real bread, made with care and time, with my town.

There’s something so rewarding about watching someone tear into a loaf or bite into a warm piece of focaccia and smile without saying a word. It’s simple, but it feels deeply human. Bread connects us. It always has.

Still Chasing the Perfect Loaf

Every bake still feels like an experiment. I’m still learning, still testing, still chasing that elusive “perfect” loaf that probably doesn’t even exist. But that’s what keeps me coming back. Every crackling crust, every swirl of olive oil across golden focaccia—it’s another chance to learn, to create, to share something meaningful.

So yes, if you measured this journey in time or ingredients, it would be hundreds of hours and thousands of grams of flour. But more than that, it’s been years of joy, failure, discovery, and connection.

And the best part? The next loaf might just be my favorite one yet.