The Spring That Broke, and the March Toward Fall

Spring is supposed to be the season of new beginnings, isn't it? Birdsong, seedlings, open windows, full ovens. But this year, Spring didn't bloom—it broke.

It broke me in ways I’m still stitching back together.

It started with loss. First, the kind that aches through generations.

Tutu—my maternal grandmother, my teacher in witchery, my compass in contradictions—died. And to be honest, it wasn’t all grace and warmth. Her laughter could command a room, but her sharpness could burn like salt in the wound. She taught me to read cards and watch the moon. She taught me sass as a survival skill and tradition as a kind of spell.

Tutu + I (1985)

For her final birthday, I baked her favorite dessert: bread pudding. It was soft and golden and spiced the way she liked it, though even that gesture felt more like a ritual than a celebration. A collection of her tarot decks and ashes are still here with me, boxed up. I plan to send them to my cousins, but shipping costs money I don't have right now. It's strange, how even grief can be paused by logistics.

Scratch-made Bread Pudding

Then Portabella died.

She was one of our hens. A real personality. Quirky and proud and always the first to talk to you in the garden. Losing a chicken might seem small compared to losing a grandmother, but grief doesn’t come with a scale. Her absence still rings out in the morning. Loss—whether feathered or familial—carries weight in its own way. Another rhythm gone. Another aching. Another slow smile.

The OG Three: Chipotle, Meadow and Portabella

And just when we thought we might finally breathe, the oven broke. Right before our busiest baking season. Not only did it break—but the electrical box tried to catch fire, too. Half of it had to be replaced.

We’re a cottage food home. That oven wasn’t just a tool—it was our income, our creative fire, the centerpiece of how we love people through food. Suddenly, recipes had to wait. Orders had to pause. And the silence from our usual seasonal communications wasn’t laziness or disinterest—it was survival. We were just trying to hold the pieces.

Meanwhile, behind the scenes of our public silences, some battles were unfolding quietly—ones I can’t fully speak on, but that have taken up residence in my bones. Family matters. Matters of care. Matters of trying to protect someone too young to speak for herself, while navigating systems that rarely move with urgency or empathy.

I can’t say much, not yet. But if you’ve felt that heavy grief of loving a child through chaos you didn’t cause… you already know. And if you’ve ever had to be both soft place and sword for your sister, you know what this season has required of me.

And the garden—usually a source of steady reassurance—gave no harvest this time. The soil was depleted. It needed rebuilding. Just like me. There was no pushing through, no clever workarounds. Only compost. Only the long game.

So I listened.

Spring became a season not of growth but of rest and reconstruction. A time to pull weeds, both in the garden and inside myself. To notice the places where resentment had rooted, where disappointment had crept in. It was ugly work. Necessary work.

Now Summer is here, loud and glaring. The sun shows up whether you're ready or not. Some days it feels like a challenge. Some days, like a promise. I’ve been dragging myself forward with the knowledge that even if this season isn't bright and joyful, it is still moving. So am I.

Fall is coming.

And with it, the sense of steadiness I’ve been craving. Cooler air. Richer soil. A return to rhythm. A rebuild of the oven. The possibility of new recipes, new rituals, and maybe—just maybe—a little breathing room.

This was the Spring that broke. But even broken things can bloom again, with time. And if you’ve been waiting for a newsletter, for recipes, for updates—we see you. We love you. We’re still here. Just a little quieter. Just a little more tender.

We’ll meet you in the turning. In the cool hush of Fall. With bread again. With warmth again. Soon. Thank you to those in our community who have stood beside us. Loved us and supported us. It has been deeply felt. -Cimberly