Hi, I’m Ale. I bake bread now.

Then my personal therapist, Taylor Swift, mentioned that she had been baking sourdough. And I thought: if bread is good enough to entertain the queen of the world, it’s good enough for me.

So I tried it. And something weird happened. The noise got quiet. For the first time in a long time I felt calm, and I felt proud of something, and all I was doing was making bread.

There were bonus perks, too. As a girl with a famously dramatic stomach, I found I could eat this bread without the usual drama. And I ate a lot of it.

I started sharing loaves with friends. They kept telling me it was really good and that I should sell it. I kept telling them no. The self-doubt won for months.

The turning point came somewhere unexpected: my favorite little restaurant in Pigalle, in Paris. I was halfway through a glass of wine, venting to my husband that I felt like I was failing at life. And somewhere in that spiral, an idea showed up. A name, a concept, the whole thing. madre.

He didn’t laugh, and he didn’t tell me to sleep on it. He told me to go for it. Sometimes you just need a little push. (And sometimes you need it in Paris.)

So I decided to try, on one condition: no pressure. Just something that’s mine, built slowly and with care.

The name comes from masa madre, the starter that makes every loaf rise. It’s also a nod to where I learned to love food. I come from a Guatemalan/Italian family of cooks, the kind where every important moment happens around a table, usually with too much food on it.

That’s what I hope this bread does for you. Bring it to the table. Tear it, share it, make it part of your own recipes and your own memories.

Made with a lot of love and a little resilience, for ordinary days that deserve something good.

Kiss my focaccias.
— Ale