More Than a Trend: The Heart Behind Our Sourdough Workshops at Lemon & Lavender
When we first started offering sourdough workshops nearly two years ago at Lemon & Lavender, we had no idea the kind of community it would create. What began as a simple way to teach people how to make their own bread—wholesome, healthy, homemade—has become something so much more. Yes, sourdough is having a moment. You’ve probably seen the loaves on Instagram, the starters on kitchen counters, and the hashtags celebrating the “Granny Hobbies” that are making a serious comeback.
But to us, it was never just about bread.
From the beginning, our workshops have been about going back to the basics. In a world that moves quickly, where convenience often trumps quality, we wanted to offer something that invited people to slow down. To use their hands. To wait. To create. Sourdough forces us to do just that—pause, pay attention, and be present.
There’s something special about the process. Mixing water, flour, and salt doesn’t sound particularly poetic until you witness what it becomes. The transformation is slow and deliberate. You feed your starter. You wait. You knead. You rest. You shape. You bake. Every step calls for intention and care—much like life, really.
Yes, people come to our workshops to learn the craft. But more often than not, they leave with something more: a sense of calm, connection, and pride in what their hands can do. Many tell us it feels like self-care—therapeutic even. In making bread, they’re also making time for themselves. It’s a subtle but powerful shift in rhythm.
And when that first loaf comes out of the oven—golden, crackling, warm—something magical happens. It’s not just food. It’s something they created. And when they take it home, share it with a neighbor or a friend, it becomes a gesture of love, of care, of community.
Over the months, that spirit of sharing has taken root beyond our store. We’ve seen it flourish in the Facebook group we created for our workshop participants. What started as a place to troubleshoot crumb texture and fermentation timelines has blossomed into a digital kitchen table of sorts. People post photos of their bakes (successes and flops), swap recipes, ask questions, and cheer each other on. There’s a sense of camaraderie that rises right alongside the bread.
This community is why we do what we do. While the trend of sourdough might ebb and flow, we believe the lessons it teaches are timeless:
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Slow down.
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Be intentional.
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Create something with care.
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Know what you’re feeding your body.
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And share it with others.
In a world full of noise, sourdough offers a kind of quiet. It reminds us that simple doesn’t mean small. That slow doesn’t mean lazy. That old-fashioned doesn’t mean outdated.
So yes, come for the bread. But stay for the community. For the stories. For the joy of learning something new—or rather, something old—and making it your own.
Here’s to two years of flour-dusted countertops, bubbly starters, and shared loaves. And here’s to many more.
