A Sourdough Story from Nordvest

There’s something deeply grounding about working with your hands. Maybe it’s because so much of my daily life happens behind a screen — in data, in structure, in logic. But lately, I’ve been drawn to things that feel slower and more tangible. Things that remind me that not everything has to be optimized or efficient — sometimes it’s just about doing, shaping, and learning.

One of those things — very late to the trend, I know — has been sourdough. I somehow skipped the great lockdown baking wave of 2020, when everyone else was naming their starters and talking hydration percentages on Instagram. But here I am, several years late to the party, quietly discovering that yes, it really is as satisfying as everyone said. And maybe it’s even better this way — at my own pace, without the pressure of everyone else baking along.

I first became curious about it a few years ago after taking a fermentation class that briefly touched on baking. My sister later showed me her own sourdough process — the starter, the folding, the patience — and when I came home, I decided to try it too. It went… okay. My starter lived, then died, then lived again, then died for good. The bread never quite rose the way I hoped, and after a few disappointing attempts, I quietly gave up. I think I made it harder in my head than it really was — and, honestly, failing repeatedly just didn’t feel great.

Then, earlier this autumn, I saw that the library was hosting the Craft Festival in Nordvest. I’ve noticed that I’m more and more drawn to working with my hands, so when I saw two sourdough workshops listed, I asked a friend to join me. The class was at Flok (part of Flere Fugle), taught by Thomas, who leads the baking workshops there. That morning, we learned how to make sourdough buns — shaping, waiting, and trusting the process — and went home with some buns and sourdough start to start baking at home.

It was simple, and I wondered - could I get back into it?

Naturally, I bought a baking steel right away to help the buns cook evenly (because we all know you cannot possibly bake without all the tools and accessories, right?). Since then, I’ve baked at home a few times — experimenting, adjusting, observing. Nothing fancy. But even in those first few tries, I could already tell what might need tweaking: a bit more moisture here, a better spot in the oven there, learning to balance the crisp crust with the soft inside.

Last week, I went back to Flok to assist Thomas during another workshop — this one focused on bread. Being behind the scenes this time, helping others mix and knead, was a completely different experience. I learned just as much by prepping with Thomas and watching others as I did the first time. I can build on what I’ve learned — adding new perspectives and new questions to ask.

Maybe that’s also what I love about this little journey — it connects me more to Nordvest and the happenings here. The act of baking is part of something larger here: a neighborhood full of people who care about craft, food, and community. Places like Flere Fugle and Flok aren’t just bakeries or cafés — they’re small hubs of creativity and connection.

Even after just a few weeks, I find myself appreciating both sides of it: the slow, manual process of baking, and the joy of walking down the street to buy a fresh loaf from someone who’s mastered the art.

I don’t know if I’ll be making sourdough forever. Maybe it’s just a phase. Maybe it’ll stick. But for now, I love the feeling of pulling a tray of warm buns out of the oven — not perfect, but mine. For now, it is the kind of rhythm I want more of in my life.