Stack of crispy gingersnap sourdough cookies with a crackly sugar coating in a small woven basket.

Mom’s Gingersnap Sourdough Cookies

💫 Where childhood gingersnaps meet grown-up sourdough comfort in the warmest way.

From Mom’s hidden gingersnaps to my own sourdough-sprinkled memories… these sourdough gingersnap cookies taste like home.

Some of my sweetest memories of my mom are the quiet ones. She was small and a little frail toward the end, wrapped in her favorite blanket, sitting at the corner of the couch with her morning coffee. That was her peaceful place. And in her hand, more often than not, was a simple gingersnap.

Whenever I’d ask what she was eating, she’d give me this soft little smile and say,
“Gingersnap… they’re good for my colon.”

It was her way of justifying a tiny pleasure, a moment of sweetness she carved out for herself. And the older I get, the more I understand the comfort she found in that one humble cookie.

Maybe her love for gingersnaps carried her back to her own childhood. My grandma lived through the Great Depression, when molasses sweetened almost everything because it was cheaper than sugar. Gingersnaps might have been one of the few treats they could make. A small comfort that stayed with her all her life.

Grandma loved to cook.
Her kitchen was tiny, truly tiny, tucked inside her eight-hundred-square-foot house, yet somehow she could whip up the most incredible cinnamon rolls, Sunday meals that fed six daughters, and feasts big enough for our whole family. Looking back, I have no idea how she did it. But her kitchen always felt magical. Small, warm, full of laughter and the smell of something bubbling or baking.

And maybe that’s where it started.
A grandmother who made sweetness out of almost nothing.
A mother who found comfort in a quiet moment with a crisp, spicy cookie.
And now me, folding those memories into my own kitchen with a sourdough twist.

And honestly, if one humble cookie can bring a moment of warmth or peace, let it. We all deserve a small sweetness to end the day.

The Secret Closet Stash

After she passed, we found something that made all of us stop and smile.

When we started going through her things, we found little pieces of her that surprised us. My mom was maybe 80 pounds, tiny and gentle, yet tucked in drawers were small pocket knives. For what purpose, I’ll never know. Self-defense? Against what? A squirrel? It made us laugh in that soft way you do when grief meets memory.

But the one discovery that brought the biggest smile was hidden in the very back of her closet. Behind her shoes, wrapped like a tiny treasure in a wicker basket, was her secret stash of gingersnaps.

Not on the counter.
Not in the pantry.
In her closet.

And suddenly it all made sense.
This wasn’t medicine or habit.
This was her joy. Her quiet moment. The tiny treat she didn’t want to share or justify.

I brought one of the bags home with me. And the next morning, I sat with my coffee and ate a cookie in complete silence… just like she did. And I loved every single bite.

How Grief Led Me Into the Kitchen

After she passed, I flew back home to California, and that is when the silence felt different. Montana held her final days, but home held the traces of her love. She worked so hard to care for my brothers and me, even when life was not easy for her. Coming home made me realize how much of my heart had been built by her courage.

And somehow, without thinking, I kept finding myself in the kitchen.

Not with a plan. Not with a recipe.
Just… standing there. Letting the stillness settle around me. Opening a cupboard. Touching a bowl. Reaching for ingredients without knowing what they were going to become.

There’s a gentle kind of healing that happens when you let your hands move before your heart is ready. When you cook or bake not because you need the food, but because you need the movement. The sound of a whisk. The feel of a spoon against the bowl. The simple act of creating something when everything else feels undone.

Little by little, the kitchen became my soft place to land.
A place where grief loosened its grip.
A place where creativity led the way.
A place where I could breathe again.

How Sourdough Found Me

In those quiet days after coming home, sourdough wasn’t something I went looking for. It felt more like it found me. It showed up gently, the way comfort sometimes does… not loud, not dramatic, just a small tug toward something alive.

There was something calming about it right from the start.
The way flour and water transform when you’re patient with them.
The tiny bubbles that appear overnight like a whisper that says, “I’m here.”
The ritual of feeding it, watching it rise, tending to it like a plant that breathes.

Sourdough asked for time, not pressure.
Presence, not perfection.
And in a season where everything felt fragile, that was exactly what my heart could handle.

It felt like a quiet companion in the kitchen.
A little bit wild.
A little bit comforting.
Something I could care for when I wasn’t sure how to care for myself yet.

And once I started baking with it… the warmth, the aroma, the way dough softened under my hands, it felt like rediscovering a part of myself I didn’t know I’d misplaced.

Sourdough gave me rhythm again.
A reason to show up.
A way to breathe through the quiet.

The Joy of Feeding the People I Love

Once sourdough became a little heartbeat in my kitchen, the joy slowly followed. There is something incredibly tender about creating food for the people you love, especially when it comes from a place of healing and quiet intention.

Every loaf, every cookie, every new recipe felt like a small offering.
A way of saying I am here.
A way of saying I am finding my way back.
A way of saying I love you without speaking at all.

And my husband has never once complained.
He became the official taste tester, the warm smile in the doorway, the soft mmm mmm mmm that always made me laugh. Every time a tray came out of the oven, he was already halfway to the kitchen, pulled in by the smell and the comfort of something homemade.

There is joy in that. Pure, simple joy.
The kind that appears when you feed someone and watch their face soften.
The kind that reminds you that food is connection and comfort and care.
The kind that gently stitches the quiet places inside you back together.

And somewhere in the middle of the loaves and the cookies and the messy counters, I realized that feeding the people I love was feeding something inside me too.

The Afterglow

Rediscovering old recipes has become one of the sweetest parts of this journey. I have been bringing family flavors back into my kitchen and mixing in a little sourdough to give them new life. It feels like honoring the women who came before me and creating something of my own at the same time.

Sometimes I wonder if I am weaving a bit of my mom’s love into each bake. A little of her comfort. A little of her quiet joy. A whisper of her gingersnap ritual resting in the dough. It feels warm and familiar, like she is still with me each time I pull a tray from the oven.

Maybe that is what baking really is. A way to connect the past with the present. A way to let memories soften into something you can hold in your hands. A way to keep the people you love close, even when they are far from reach.

If you want to make these gingersnaps for yourself, or if you would like to carry a little of my mom’s quiet comfort and a touch of sourdough glow into your own kitchen, the recipe is right below.

Get the full recipe here →
👉 https://sourdoughafterglow.com/recipe/sourdough-gingersnap-cookies/ 🍪✨

✨✨ I hope you feel a little warmth and a little peace in every bite. I hope your kitchen becomes a place where memories rise gently and love mixes in without trying. That is the Afterglow. ✨✨

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When I first began my sourdough journey, I had so many questions and no idea where to begin. If I can help make your own path a little less confusing and a lot more comforting, this little starter pack is for you. Inside, you will find a hydration chart, flour swaps, and a printable sourdough starter card to make your baking days feel easy and cozy.

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