A Sourdough Movement (and Maybe a Farm Stand .... Eventually)

Some stories begin with a spark. Mine began with a jar.

Not just any jar—the jar—filled with a bubbly, tangy, living starter gifted to me by an old friend I lovingly call “The Pioneer Woman.” She’s the kind of friend who can whip up biscuits without a recipe, grow tomatoes the size of softballs, and somehow keep chickens alive while the rest of us are just trying to keep houseplants going. So when she placed that mason jar in my hands, I knew I was being entrusted with something special. This of course was after she gave me a crash course in how to use a scale to measure the ingredients, a taste of her blueberry/lemon zest sourdough bread and the slightly intimidating conversation about how she bakes to sell.  Was I even worthy?  Would I even keep the starter more than the day?  Time would only tell.

The starter doesn’t have a name yet—though I swear it has a personality—but it’s been nurtured, fed, tucked in, and fussed over like a new family member. And in return? It has given us sustenance, comfort, and the kind of chewy-crusted joy that makes the whole house smell like a warm hug.

Somewhere between feeding the starter and stretching dough on the counter sprinkled with flour like fresh snowfall, a wild little thought began to take root:

What if I started a tiny farm stand?

You know the kind I’m talking about—weathered wood, a sweet sign made with stencils and chalk paint, baskets overflowing with rustic sourdough boules, soft-baked cookies, maybe a dozen speckled eggs (from chickens that are in the winter molting months and that Pinterest said I could own). The kids would run barefoot collecting imaginary farm chores, and neighbors would stop by on Saturday mornings to pick up a loaf or two while chatting about the weather and recipe swaps.

It’s the kind of homespun fantasy that blooms quietly while the dough rises and the kitchen fills with that unmistakable sourdough perfume. And honestly? It feels like the beginning of something. Maybe not a business yet—but a movement. A tiny, flour-dusted, heartwarming sourdough movement happening right here in my very normal, not-even-close-to-a-farm kitchen.

Sure, last week I scorched a batch of cookies while flipping laundry and someone (ahem, the dog) made off with half a cooling loaf. But still… every time a perfectly blistered, golden loaf emerges from the oven, I feel that spark again. The Pioneer Woman’s legacy continues. The starter keeps thriving. And so does the dream.

Who knows? Maybe one day there will be a little stand at the end of the driveway with handmade signs and baskets full of goodies. For now, I’ll keep feeding this unnamed starter, baking bread that tastes like home, experimenting with flavor such as jalapeno and cheder cheese, pretzels (great for the boys), new cookies and letting the movement rise one warm loaf at a time.

Thanksgiving at Home: Pies, Parades & a Healing Husband

This year, Thanksgiving looked a little different in our house—and honestly, I think that’s exactly what made it so perfect.

Instead of the usual rush of who’s bringing what, who’s sitting where, and trying to squeeze five different side dishes into the oven at the exact right second, we slowed everything way down. For once, Thanksgiving wasn’t about the schedule. It was about the moments.

With my husband recovering from hip surgery, our plans simplified themselves. No big gatherings, no frantic hosting—just us, the kids, the dog circling the kitchen like she had a job to do, and the humbling reminder that sometimes the most meaningful celebrations happen when life forces you to sit still.

And sit still we did—right into the couch—watching the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade in our pajamas. Coffee in hand, blankets everywhere, half-watching the floats while I peeled potatoes and measured spices for pies. There’s something about that parade that brings out the kid in all of us. Even the teenagers wandered in and out of the room pretending they weren’t watching… but I saw them smile when Tom Turkey floated across the screen.

In the kitchen, the real magic happened. I committed to homemade pumpkin pie—like actual from-scratch pumpkin pie—and our traditional apple pie, the ones that make the whole house smell like cinnamon and quiet joy. There’s something therapeutic about rolling out dough, pressing the edges just right, brushing on that little bit of egg wash that makes you feel like you have your life together (even if you absolutely don’t).

While the pies baked, the house filled with warm, familiar smells. The scent of “home.” The kind of smell that makes the kids wander into the kitchen asking, “Is it ready yet?” even though everyone knows Thanksgiving pies are a later thing.

Meanwhile, my husband camped out in his recovery spot, bundled up with pillows and a rotating system for ice packs. Every time I looked over, I saw a man trying very hard to pretend he didn’t mind being sidelined for the holiday. But the truth is, I think he loved the slow pace too—the chance to just be, surrounded by family, no expectations, no rushing.       

Dinner was simple but comforting, exactly what we needed. And the best part? The leftovers. So many leftovers. I’m talking turkey & ham for days. Pie for breakfast. Random combinations of stuffing and rolls showing up at every meal. That magical post-Thanksgiving stretch where you barely have to cook because the fridge is doing all the heavy lifting. Honestly, it feels like a holiday bonus.

We didn’t dress up. We didn’t host a big crowd. We didn’t have a table overflowing with every Pinterest-pretty dish under the sun.

Instead, we had cozy blankets.
Homemade pies.
The parade.
Kids who were actually relaxed.
A healing husband who got to rest without missing out.
Leftovers that will carry us well into the week.
And a day that reminded me that Thanksgiving isn’t ever about perfection—it’s about presence.

Slow. Simple. Sweet.
Kind of like the perfect slice of pie.

And honestly?
I think this might be my new favorite way to do Thanksgiving.

When Thanksgiving Teaches Us About Change

 

Thanksgiving has always carried a kind of magic for me — the familiar scents drifting from the kitchen, the sound of family laughter layering over Christmas Movies playing in the background or the Macy's Day Thanksgiving Parade, the comforting chaos of too many people trying to help with one oven. For years, this holiday felt like an anchor, something I could count on to look exactly the same no matter what else was shifting around us.

But this year… this year feels different.

Maybe it’s because the kids are older. Maybe it’s because life keeps nudging (okay, shoving) me into new seasons faster than my heart is ready for. Or maybe it’s simply that Thanksgiving has a way of spotlighting the fact that time doesn’t slow down, not even when we beg it to. Whatever the reason, I’m feeling the change — and I’m learning to welcome it, even when it tugs at me.

I used to set the Thanksgiving table with little handprint turkeys and name cards the kids scribbled their own names on. Now I’m met with deeper voices, bigger shoes piled at the door, and the realization that some seats are filled with friends and some seats are left unfilled for those who have past. And yet, somehow, the table still feels full — maybe even fuller.

I used to cook nearly everything myself because it felt like part of the mom role. Now I focus on just a few becoming simpler as time marches on.  My kids are not just yet ready to take on the experimental dish making just yet. Letting go of control has slowly turned into letting in new memories.

And honestly? It’s beautiful in a way I didn’t expect.

This Thanksgiving, I’m realizing that change doesn’t just happen to us — it happens for us. It stretches us. It shows us who our children are becoming and who we are becoming alongside them. It reminds us that traditions aren’t meant to trap us in the past but to carry us forward, adapting as we do.

Some years, the house is loud and overflowing. Other years, someone important is missing. Sometimes we gather around joy; sometimes around heartbreak. But every time, Thanksgiving whispers the same reminder: be here now. Be grateful for what was, for what is, and for what’s still unfolding — even if it looks different than you imagined.

So this year, I’m embracing the shifts. The new faces. The new rhythms. The changing roles. And yes, even the bittersweet ache of watching my kids grow into the people they’re meant to be.

Because Thanksgiving isn’t really about the perfect table or the predictable traditions. It’s about love — evolving, stretching, surprising love — and the tenderness of recognizing that change is its own kind of blessing.

Happy Thanksgiving, friends. May your table be full, your hearts be open, and your season be rich with gratitude… even for the changes you didn’t see coming. 🧡

And That's A Wrap: The Curse No More

 Breaking the Curse: A Mom’s Reflections on Stayton High School’s Unforgettable Season

I stood on the edge of the field on Friday night, with my Stayton scarf, my #0 Eagle Trucker Hat, a blue lit cowboy hat, and my phone in hand, watching the final seconds dissolve from the scoreboard. The usual late-fall chill settled over Stayton, but it couldn’t touch the warmth swelling in my chest. Not tonight. Not after this season.

When the final whistle blew, it wasn’t just the end of a game.
It was the end of the game—Stayton High School’s last match of an undefeated, unforgettable season. A finish this town has been hoping for, dreaming of, and fighting toward since 2010.  And for the Seniors a wonderful way to complete their final season!

And right at the center of that celebration—arms thrown around his teammates, cheers echoing across the field—was my son, Ty.

His love for soccer has always run deep, but his love for this team… that was different. This group of boys became his brothers, his family. Every ride home, every dinner table conversation, every late-night reflection circled back to them. The trust, the jokes, the grit, the belief—they carried each other every step.

And make no mistake… this community carried them too.

The Epic Send-Off

Before that final match, our boys didn’t just leave town—they were escorted out. The Stayton Police Department and the Fire District showed up in full lights-and-sirens glory, leading the team buses through town like heroes heading to battle. Neighbors lined the streets, kids waved homemade signs, grandparents clapped with proud tears in their eyes.

It wasn’t just a team on those buses.

It was the heart of Stayton rolling toward destiny.

The Power of “Da Mom Crew”

And behind the scenes—fierce, tired, determined, laughing, organizing at all hours—was our beloved Da Mom Crew.

We cooked breakfasts.
We hosted dinners.
We packed snacks.
We decorated signs, put posters up and glammed out each game.
If there was a way to fuel a teenage boy or lift his morale, trust me, we did it.

Those gatherings weren’t just meals—they were mom-made momentum. They built the camaraderie this team became known for. The boys might have done the running, the scoring, the sweating… but Da Mom Crew? We kept them fed, loved, supported, and feeling like champions long before the scoreboard said so.

And I’ll always treasure the laughter in Coach Shields classroom, the chaos of feeding a roomful of soccer players, the endless grocery runs, and the joy of watching these boys bond over french toast dishes, pasta, and way too many Gatorades.

A Community United

Stayton didn’t just watch this season happen.
Stayton lived this season.

The stands were full at every match—parents, teachers, alumni, little kids wearing eagle fan gear, families who’d never watched a soccer game before but came because these boys deserved to feel the weight of the town behind them. 

At school, the boys were celebrated like the champions they were becoming.
In town, people asked for scores before asking about the weather. Busses of students filled the stands and outcheered other teams.

The entire community felt invested in breaking the curse one game at a time.

Breaking the Curse

If you know Stayton soccer, you know the story since 2010: the almosts, the heartbreaks, the near-misses. A quiet “curse” hanging over the program, season after season.

But this year was different.
This year, the boys chipped away at it match by match, goal by goal, moment by moment.

They built something no curse could withstand.

They built belief.

Ty felt it. He carried it. He lived it.
And as a mom, I saw how deeply this team shaped him—not just as a player, but as a young man who understands commitment, heart, and brotherhood.

A Moment We’ll Never Forget

When I hugged Ty after the final whistle—sweaty, exhausted, overflowing with pride—I knew this moment would live with him forever. With all of us, really.

                                            Photo Cred Statesman Journal

This undefeated season wasn’t just a championship run.
It was redemption.
It was healing.
It was community.
It was history.
It was proof that when a small town rallies behind its young men, magic can happen.

Congratulations, Eagles.

Thank you for a season that reminded us what heart, unity, and belief can do.

And from one very proud soccer mom:

Ty, your love for this sport, your team, and this town made this journey unforgettable. You boys didn’t just win games. You broke a curse. And you did it together.