In 2005, I sat in a glass office high above Park Avenue looking south beyond the Flatiron Building toward a pit in lower Manhattan. The bent, twisted, buckled sections of the World Trade Center’s windows and its girders, which had held so much high above the clouds, had been hauled away—110,000 truckloads to move a man-made mountain. Deep fires and hot spots had been extinguished, but Ground Zero remained—a scar, a dividing line between before and after, a silent encouragement to do something while there was time, for life was so short and precious.

I was working as a manager on the operational side of an investment bank—a stressful job with the expected perks, which allowed Julie to be at home with our children. Workweeks took me away to worry and concern, and weekends delivered me home to sweet family, baking, and giving “Martin bread” to the neighborhood. Baking consumed my time between diaper changes; I was in hot pursuit of this thing that connected my hands to my heart and my soul to my mouth.

One evening the fog of sleep deprivation broke for a moment and aligned with lightly sleeping children and we had a discussion at the end of which we said, “Let’s do it.” Let’s jump, let’s run. Let’s leave this life as we know it and start over. Yes, there will be sacrifice and challenge, discomfort and change; but steps backward might enable steps forward toward country places, smaller challenges, and bigger spaces.

I applied for an opening for a baker at King Arthur Flour. It was more than a long shot—when I wasn’t hired it made perfect sense. I had no professional experience in baking, no culinary school education; in no way did I belong on a team of professional bakers. But I am hardheaded, and a few months later I applied again. Still no luck. But did I mention hardheaded? Time passed, another opening came, and of course I applied yet again; this time Jeffrey invited me to come to Vermont and bring Julie and the kids for an interview. As the kids ran around his office, smiling and laughing, I knew I was in the right place, I knew that I could fit if given the chance. Please, oh, please, oh, please hire me. A few days later Jeffrey called and offered me the job. I accepted immediately and, in doing so, made what was on paper the most foolish choice of my life.

What idiot with a wife and two kids and a comfortable life in Manhattan would accept a job in food service in rural Vermont? I had no clue about the money, no idea whatsoever, and really didn’t care. Money hadn’t made me happy; maybe the lack of it would. I had a feeling that those things would sort themselves out, but, still, we were jumping with no clear landing, hoping that craft and a life in Vermont would answer, would provide, would nurture and sustain.

We packed our apartment, winnowing our possessions down to fit our smaller future home. I distinctly remember sitting in an empty room on a futon on the floor with the girls, playing my banjo as my heart lightened, in love with my essentials, my only true necessities, ready for whatever came next.