Marina Jo's Place

So many opinions.

So much advice.

Some of it thoughtful, some of it … not so much.

That’s how my bread-making journey began –swirling somewhere between well-meaning suggestions and the quiet chaos of wedding planning.

Almost two years ago, knee-deep in guest lists and linen samples, my soon-to-be mother-in-law made a passing comment.

She glanced at our wedding registry – one I’d meticulously curated (let’s be honest, mostly me) – and said, “Huh, no KitchenAid?”

At the time, I didn’t want one.

I could cook with my eyes closed, but baking? Baking was a finicky, flour-covered land of rules. Timers. Temperatures. Days-long waits for a single loaf of bread. No, thank you.

But when you’re mentally maxed out and someone tosses a comment like that into the air, sometimes you just add the KitchenAid and move on.

We figured no one would buy it anyway.

But then, in a moment of beautifully unexpected friendship, my three best guy friends from college pitched in and gifted us the iconic machine.

Its first debut? Pasta.

Its first result? A complete disaster.

The dough fell apart. The speed settings confused me. The frustration crept in until it swelled into a full-on crash out. I cried. Actual tears-over-the-counter cried. And my husband, sweet and steady, talked me off the culinary ledge. He didn’t let that moment become a failure. Instead, he rolled up his sleeves and helped me try again.

That night, something shifted. After all the tears, it finally worked. It took a minute, but it worked.

Now? I know that pasta recipe by heart. (Shout-out to Sam Way.)

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150 grams all-purpose flour
150 grams semolina
3 eggs
1.5 teaspoons salt

Combine the dry stuff.
Make a well.
Crack the eggs.
Mix on level 3 for five minutes.
Let it rest in the fridge.

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Simple. Comforting. Playful.

What I didn’t understand back then is that baking isn’t just about precision – it’s about possibility.

Once you get the basics down, you get to play.

My imagination is the only limit now. I’ve made basil-cilantro pasta. I’ve experimented with herbs and spices like they’re old friends with new stories to tell.

And then came the bread.

A kind neighbor from my local Buy Nothing group (a story for another day) offered up a sourdough starter, and I, finally fluent in the language of my stand mixer, said yes.

Now, making bread is part of my rhythm. Like pasta. Like sewing. Like crocheting. A “granny craft,” they say – making a comeback. And I understand why.

Because in the quiet moments – when my hands are in dough and my phone is somewhere far away – I feel free.

Free to create.

Free to feed the people I love.

Free to mess up and try again.

There’s something deeply satisfying about shaping flour and water into nourishment. It’s slow, yes. But it’s also grounding. Joyful. A kind of magic that doesn’t need to rush.

It’s an odd kind of freedom, sure.

But it’s mine.