Bread, Body & Home

A note before we begin: Some of the tools and ingredients I use in this recipe are linked below. These are affiliate links, which means I may earn a small commission if you purchase, at no extra cost to you. I only recommend what I trust and use in my own kitchen, where the rhythm of baking continues.

When I was a child, I thought sourdough cinnamon cardamom buns came from my grandmother’s hands. She would pull open the same wooden drawer every Sunday morning, one of those rickety, slightly warped drawers common in 1950s kitchens, the kind that didn’t slide out like the smooth ones we have today. It stuck slightly if it was humid, and frustrated the hell out of anyone that tried to open and close it. Inside, nestled between a small tin of dried lavender and a cracked bottle of vanilla, was a bundle of cinnamon sticks. She never used them whole. Instead, she would take one, wrap it in a tea towel, and crack it open with the bottom of her heavy ceramic mug. That first break, the moment when the woody bark splintered and the fragrance escaped was my favourite part.

She never told me where the cinnamon came from. Not because she didn’t know, but because she didn’t need to. To her, cinnamon was home. It was the scent of butter warming in a pan, of dough rising in a cool kitchen in spring in Ontario, of sugar melting into something golden and crisp. It wasn’t until much later that I learned the truth: that cinnamon—my cinnamon, my grandmother’s cinnamon—was never really ours at all.

Sweetbreads have been around across cultures for centuries. Long before sourdough cinnamon cardamom buns became part of our weekend rituals, ancient civilizations were mixing grains with honey and dried fruits, celebrating harvests, fertility, and feast days. In medieval Europe, enriched breads with butter and eggs were reserved for the wealthiest tables or for religious feasts. Spices were precious, and sweeteners were rare.

It wasn’t until the expansion of the global spice trade that things changed.

As goods began moving across the Arabian Peninsula, through India and Sri Lanka, and into ports controlled by Portuguese, Dutch, and British traders, Europe gained access to cinnamon, cardamom, nutmeg, and cloves. These spices, once hoarded by kings, eventually found their way into the kitchens of everyday people, especially in countries like Sweden, where a baking tradition was beginning to take root.

Cinnamon, native to Sri Lanka, was especially prized for its warm, resinous aroma. Cardamom, a citrusy, floral seed native to the forests of southern India, also became a staple in Scandinavian baking, brought north by way of Arab traders, the Ottomans, and eventually the spice companies of Europe.

In Sweden, these spices weren’t just added for flavour. They became part of culture woven into the fabric of fika, a daily ritual of coffee and pastries shared with friends and family.

By the 17th century, wheat flour, sugar, and butter were becoming more accessible, and with them came an explosion of sweet baking in Sweden. Buns spiced with cardamom (kardemummabullar), braided loaves, and the now-iconic kanelbulle, the cinnamon bun, began to appear in homes and bakeries.

Unlike the American-style cinnamon rolls that are heavy, icing-laden, and often cloying, Swedish sweet breads are gently spiced, lightly sweet, and intended for sharing. They are often made with care, slowly risen doughs, and a quiet reverence for tradition.

That’s the spirit behind these sourdough cinnamon cardamom buns.

They are built on time, not on shortcuts. The dough is fermented slowly using natural wild yeast. The filling is soft and spiced, not too sweet, just enough to warm your whole kitchen. And when you break one open, the texture is pillowy, soft, and aromatic with spice.

In many modern recipes, butter is thrown in at the start, the cinnamon gets dumped in the dough, and everything is mixed at once. But that’s not how our ancestors baked, and it’s not how good bread is made.

When making enriched doughs like this, butter should be added after the gluten has started to form. Fat shortens gluten strands, and adding it too early can prevent the dough from building the structure it needs. By kneading the dough first, then gradually incorporating softened butter one cube at a time, you get that perfect, silky, elastic result without losing strength.

As for cinnamon? It doesn’t go in the dough. It belongs in the filling. Cinnamon can inhibit fermentation when mixed directly into the dough, and its delicate aroma is better preserved when it's layered gently, rolled, and baked into soft spirals.

These sourdough cinnamon cardamom buns are a story. Of trade winds and wooden drawers. Of cardamom pods cracked open in northern kitchens. Of the quiet, slow strength that comes from doing things properly, without rushing.

So the next time you’re tempted to toss everything into the mixer and speed your way through, remember: time is the ingredient that changes everything.

And somewhere in your dough, your flour, or your spice tin, you might just find the hands of your grandmother, too.

Serving: 1 bun (~205g) | Calories: 1216 kcal | Carbohydrates: 151.9g | Protein: 19.3g | Fat: 59.6g | Saturated Fat: 34.3g | Cholesterol: 180.0mg | Sodium: 780.0mg | Potassium: 220.0mg | Fiber: 2.8g | Sugar: 60.2g | Vitamin A: 950.0 IU | Calcium: 120.0mg | Iron: 3.5mg

Picking wild blueberries near Sauble Beach was something my dad and I did every summer, and it was never just about the berries. It was about the land, the seasons, and the quiet moments we shared together. I can still remember walking through those fields, the earth warm beneath our feet and the air thick with the scent of sand and soil. The sweet smell of fruit ripening in the sun made us eager to pick as many as we could.

The breeze off Lake Huron kept the air cool as we searched for the best berries, filling our baskets while my dad told stories. He didn’t just share memories—he taught me the history of his life, of the sky, of the lake. How he grew up. How the world had shaped him. His voice carried the weight of time, like the echo of an old song, something ancient passed down from father to child. In those moments, I felt like he was handing me the stars—each story a light to carry forward.

As we crouched down, carefully plucking the ripest berries, their dark skins glistened in the sunlight. Our hands stained with their juice, we let the colour sink into our skin, unbothered by the mess. There was something deeply satisfying about filling the baskets—about working with the earth, about moving at the same unhurried rhythm as the land itself.

Birds sang overhead, their songs mixing with the hush of the breeze and the soft rustling of leaves. It felt as if the whole world was in tune with what we were doing, slow and steady, like it had been written into the fabric of time long before we ever arrived. Moments like that—so small, so simple—were the kind you never realized you’d miss until they were gone.

Just as I always have, I’ll find myself back picking blueberries this summer with my daughter, Elise, in Prince Edward County, on the shores of Lake Ontario. Every year, we return to the fields, just as my dad, George, and I did before her. The land is still warm beneath our feet, the air still carries the promise of summer, and the berries are just as sweet as ever.

And just like back then, the best part comes after—the baskets of blueberries ending up in my mother’s kitchen. She would take what we gathered and turn them into something wonderful: blueberry muffins, pies, or jam bubbling on the stove. My dad and I may have done the picking, but she was the one who made sure those summer mornings lasted just a little bit longer.

Now, it’s my turn. The scent of fresh blueberry muffins will fill my own kitchen this summer, just as it did hers, carrying with it the same warmth of summer and all the years that came before. Some things, no matter how much time passes, remain. And that is how rare and beautiful it is.

Now, it’s my turn. The scent of fresh blueberry muffins will fill my own kitchen, just as it did hers, carrying with it the same warmth of summer and all the years that came before.

These muffins are a perfect example of Canadian baking, made with locally sourced ingredients like BC sea salt, Quebec maple syrup, and wild Ontario blueberries.

• 240g (1 cup) 100% hydration active sourdough starter (fed and peaked)
• 240g (1 cup) whole milk (or dairy-free alternative)
• 180g (1 1/2 cups) organic all-purpose flour (or whole wheat flour for added nutrition)
• 12g (1 tbsp) Canadian maple syrup , preferably from Quebec ( Organic Dark Maple Syrup from Quebec )
• 1 tsp Ceylon cinnamon ( Canadian Ceylon cinnamon options )

• 2g (1/2 tsp) aluminum-free baking soda ( Coteau Hills Baking Soda or Westpoint Naturals Baking Soda)
• 1g (1/4 tsp) sea salt (Canadian)
• 30g (2 tbsp) grass-fed butter , melted and cooled (or oil of your choice)
• 2 eggs
• 12g (1 tbsp) baking powder (ensure it's aluminum-free)
• 1 tsp vanilla extract (Mexican)
• 1 1/2 cups wild blueberries, thawed and drained (to prevent excess moisture)

Alternative Options:

1/2 cup fresh or frozen raspberries, strawberries, or other berries of your choice.
Feel free to replace the wild blueberries with any other berry you prefer for a different flavor profile.

• 50g (1/4 cup) all-purpose flour
• 30g (2 tbsp) organic cane sugar or maple sugar (for a more natural sweetness)
• 30g (2 tbsp) cold grass-fed butter , cubed
• 1 tsp Ceylon cinnamon
• 1/4 tsp sea salt (Vancouver Island Sea Salt)

Serving: 1 muffin (~81g) | Calories : 99.5 kcal | Carbohydrates : 17.5g | Protein : 3.8g | Fat : 3.8g | Saturated Fat : 2.5g | Cholesterol : 24.0mg | Sodium : 351.2mg | Potassium : 54.2mg | Fiber : 0.9g | Sugar : 1.4g | Vitamin A : 120.0 IU | Calcium : 13.0mg | Iron : 0.3mg