I Passed.

How I Became a Licensed Microbakery in Delaware

After more than two months of applications, inspections, and reconfiguring my kitchen—it finally happened.

I passed.

Tía Erika is now officially licensed as a microbakery in Delaware. That means I can legally share my bread with the community.

But this wasn’t just about getting a permit. This was about building something by hand—and by heart.

To get here, I submitted kitchen blueprints, wrote out every recipe I plan to use, earned my food safety certification, built a food recall plan, and designed and printed labels for every single item I want to share. It was exhausting. It was emotional. And it was absolutely worth it.

Because this isn’t just about bread.

I started baking sourdough because, like so many Latino families, I grew up on café con pan. But here in the U.S., the options we often find on store shelves are a far cry from the fresh, handmade breads our families remember. I wanted to reconnect with those traditions in a way that also supports long-term wellness—not through restriction, but through intention.

Sourdough helped me do that.

It slows down the baking process and makes space for care. It’s naturally fermented, rich in flavor, and can be gentler on our systems—especially when it’s made with real ingredients and plenty of love. Now, I get to bring our familiar flavors into the mix: guava, corn canela, jalapeños. This is bread made with us in mind.

And let’s be real—sourdough has often been framed as something fancy or out of reach. But that’s not the truth. Sourdough lives in so many cultures around the world. In Latin America, it’s masa madre. Our ancestors were fermenting dough long before it was trendy or Instagram-worthy. What I’m doing isn’t new—it’s ancestral.

What’s new is who’s doing it out loud.

Working-class people and people of color have always nourished communities, often without recognition or access to resources. Systems weren’t built for us—but we’re still here, feeding each other, keeping culture alive. So when someone like me—first-gen, brown, raised in survival mode—gets licensed to share bread rooted in our stories?

That’s a statement.

That’s saying: We belong here.
That’s saying: We deserve care and joy.
That’s saying: Our foodways matter.

Passing this inspection isn’t just a business win. It’s deeply personal. It means I can finally serve my community with the bread I’ve been dreaming of. It means my parents can enjoy café con pan that feels familiar and full of intention. It means I’m carving out space for our flavors at the table.

Gracias!

PS. Orders are opening soon! You’ll be able to pick up loaves at our farmers market stands in Delaware—or right from my front porch.

Want first dibs? Join our exclusive Sourdough Text List to be the first to know when orders go live.