An Autumn Letter from the Kitchen Table
Sweater weather is a state of mind. Especially when it's 85 degrees outside.
There's something about fall that makes me want to bake absolutely everything.
Maybe it's the promise of cooler mornings, the excuse to put cinnamon in just about anything, or the fact that I've convinced myself every loaf of sourdough needs a new seasonal twist. Apple cinnamon? Obviously. Cranberry orange? Absolutely. Something involving rosemary, roasted garlic, and an unreasonable amount of cheese? Don't threaten me with a good time.
Fall is my baking season. It's when the kitchen becomes a revolving door of new recipes, experimental sourdough inclusions, and baked goods destined for friends, family, and anyone unfortunate enough to mention they're hungry within earshot.
And while Arizona hasn't quite received the memo that autumn is supposed to involve cooler temperatures, I'm committed to the bit.
Last weekend, it was a balmy 85 degrees, and I hosted a spooky crafternoon complete with fall crafts, a soup bar, and cozy sweater vibes. Was it technically soup weather? Absolutely not. Did that stop us? Also, absolutely not.
Because somewhere deep in my New England roots, fall means something entirely different.
For years, autumn meant harvesting the last of the garden, preserving and canning for the cold season, putting things up for winter, watching the trees change color, and feeling that unmistakable shift in the air. It was a season of gathering what we'd grown, preserving what we could, and preparing for the slower months ahead.
Of course, living in the Sonoran Desert has flipped that calendar upside down. While my internal clock is telling me to pull up the garden and prepare for frost, Arizona is telling me it's time to plant lettuce, kale, and all the things that would have been winding down back east.
Apparently, even the seasons have decided to do things differently out here.
But those old rhythms are still ingrained in me. The urge to harvest, preserve, bake, gather, and prepare doesn't disappear just because the thermometer refuses to cooperate. It simply looks a little different.
And honestly, that's a lot of what Farm & Found is about.
Taking what we have, making something meaningful from it, and finding ways to carry old traditions into new seasons.
Last fall, I shared the story of how sourdough became one of those traditions for me. What started in a Rhode Island kitchen with a friend, a little curiosity, and a starter named Taylor Sift eventually found its way to Arizona, where Dough-bi Wan Kenobi took over the responsibility of keeping the bread rising.
The names may be ridiculous, but the ritual has stuck.
There's still something incredibly satisfying about flour, salt, water, and time becoming something that brings people together. A loaf dropped off at a friend's house, warm bread served alongside a pot of soup, or an experimental recipe that turns out surprisingly well (we won't discuss the ones that don't).
It's a little bit of comfort, a little bit of creativity, and occasionally a very sticky countertop.
Of course, fall isn't exactly the peaceful, slow-paced season that all those cozy Pinterest photos would have you believe.
Around here, autumn also means school schedules, sports practices, book fairs, Trunk-or-Treats, an abundance of volunteer commitments, and approximately 400 things that need to be done before Friday.
Oh, and did I mention all three of my children were born in the fall?
Because apparently, at some point, I looked at the busiest season of the year and thought, "You know what this needs? Three birthdays."
So while my heart wants slow mornings, simmering soups, and hours spent experimenting in the kitchen, my calendar has other plans.
And somewhere between birthday celebrations, school events, and pulling another loaf from the oven, I've realized that fall isn't necessarily about slowing down.
Sometimes it's about making room.
Making room for the traditions that matter. For the people who fill our tables. For new ideas, new recipes, and new chapters. And maybe, just as importantly, making room by letting a few things go. I've always felt that autumn brings a certain restlessness. That familiar urge to clean out closets, rethink routines, start something new, or finally release the things that have been taking up space without adding much value.
Back east, the trees made that process look effortless. Every year they'd put on one spectacular show before dropping everything and starting fresh.
Arizona doesn't give me quite the same dramatic display of falling leaves, but the feeling is still there. Maybe that's why I find myself drawn to both baking and creating this time of year. One is about nurturing something new, while the other often begins by giving something old a second chance.
An outgrown shirt becomes a tote. Garden herbs become something worth saving. A handful of simple ingredients becomes bread to share. And sometimes, a season of change is simply permission to decide what deserves to come along with us and what can be left behind.
So here's to autumn, however it happens to look where you are.
To kitchens that smell like cinnamon, friends gathered around soup pots, little ones celebrating another trip around the sun, and sweaters worn in temperatures that absolutely do not justify them.
To trying new things, holding on to old traditions, and letting go of what no longer fits.
And to the beautiful chaos of creating a life, a family, and a little business that's always growing and changing right along with us.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got bread in the oven, a garden that needs planting, and approximately six school-related emails I haven't answered.
Happy fall, y'all.
Katie
Farm & Found Co.
Thoughtfully made. Through every season.
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