I love this time of year. As summer bleats out its last warm days, broken up by intermittent exclamations of the crisper climate to come, some of the best seasonal produce starts making its way to the Rochester Public Market. As I traipsed through the bustling crowd yesterday, I couldn't help but feel the magic of fall and its bounty tickling my heels with every step. 

Maybe you haven’t guessed by the name of this blog, my hobbies, or the fact that it’s the one of the only things I talk about, but I’m obsessed with food.

I am moving today, and I'm proud to say that for the first time in my sort-of adult life, I was responsible and did most of my packing ahead of time, which is great -- except when I had to make food for myself for the week and I had virtually nothing left in my pantry save a canister of flour, a packet of yeast, and some kosher salt.

But luckily, sometimes that's all you need. 

My father, a man who does not mess around with his morning caffeine fix, used to grind, press and brew his own espresso every morning before heading off for a busy day at the office. As a wild-haired child of two or three, I'd sit on the counter from time to time and act as his assistant, my young nose already keen on the rich, nutty aroma of freshly ground coffee, my grubby hands reaching for the occasional wayward bean to pop in my mouth.

I first started making bread in 2012. And I was terrible at it. My loaves, crafted lovingly with impatient, fumbling hands, resembled browned, misshapen hockey pucks. I didn't know about the importance of a good crumb then, and either I didn't know how sub-par they were or I didn't care, I was just excited to learn.

Cut to now, this week, and I have made two loaves of bread that when I sliced into them, I almost wanted to cry a little.