The Stigma of Homemade

Let’s pull back the curtain on a topic that doesn’t get talked about nearly enough—the stigma of homemade. Somewhere along the way, store-bought became the gold standard, and handmade got tucked into the corner with a polite smile and a “Well, bless your heart.” But homemade isn’t second-best—it’s soulful, intentional, and brimming with meaning.

Join me on the porch as we chat about how homemade got a bad rap, why it deserves a revival, and how each stitch, stir, and scribble we make is a quiet act of love. It’s time to dust off the doilies and reclaim the beauty in making things with our own two hands.

Transcript

Episode 175 - The Stigma of Homemade
 
Welcome back to the porch! This August heat is almost unbearable, but don’t let it stop you in your tracks. Instead, pour yourself a glass of lemonade or sweet tea and settle in for a visit. This month we’re diving into a topic that I am very passionate about – Homemade and Handcrafted. No matter what’s taking place, I always have a project close by. And when the heat outside pushes me inside, I can get quite a few of those projects accomplished. 

But let me guess. The moment I mentioned ‘homemade and handcrafted’, you might have cringed a little bit. For years now, there has been a stigma attached to those two words. It makes some people turn their nose up. But me? I strongly believe it’s a topic that deserves more than a passing glance.

Now, if you're like me, you might remember a time when “homemade” meant something special. It was stitched with love, baked from scratch, or whittled from a block of wood by someone’s granddad who wore suspenders and smelled faintly of cedar. But somewhere along the way, homemade started getting the side-eye.

These days, say something is homemade, and you might get a mixed bag of reactions—some oohs and ahhs, sure—but also a few pitying nods or a glance that says, “Oh bless your heart, you couldn’t afford the real thing?”

Well, pull up that afghan and get comfy, because we’re going to unpack how we got here, what homemade really means, and why it’s time we dust off the doilies and reclaim the honor in making things ourselves.

Let’s back up a bit. Once upon a time, everything was homemade—because it had to be. Bread didn’t magically appear in plastic bags on grocery shelves, and you couldn’t just click a button and have a birthday gift shipped to your front porch. Folks knew how to sew on a button, knit a sock, or cook a full meal using whatever they pulled from the garden and the cellar.

But then came convenience.

Don’t get me wrong—I'm all for the occasional drive-thru dinner when the day’s gotten away from me, and I’ve got flour in my hair from trying to bake something that turned into a kitchen science experiment. But when convenience took the wheel, we started believing that faster, shinier, and mass-produced automatically meant better. And pretty soon, if you were making something by hand, people started wondering if you were just trying to be frugal—or if you were just plain behind the times.

Somewhere along the way, we bought into the idea that homemade meant “couldn’t afford store-bought.” That if you stitched it, baked it, built it, or bottled it yourself, it was because you had no other choice. 

Enter the stigma: homemade became synonymous with “cheap,” “less-than,” or “second-rate.” Somewhere along the way, folks began to look at a handmade item and think, Well, it’s nice... but it’s no Pottery Barn.

What they’re missing is the soul of the thing.

What if making something with your own two hands was a luxury—because it means you took the time, you gave it thought, and you created something unique?

That casserole you brought to the potluck? Sure, it may not come in a designer dish, but it’s layered with stories—maybe the recipe came from your mama, or you tossed in a little extra basil just because it reminded you of your grandmother’s garden. You can’t get that kind of history from a heat-and-serve pan from the freezer section.

There’s a thread—sometimes it’s actual thread, sometimes it’s an invisible, almost spiritual thread —that runs through everything that’s truly homemade.

It’s in the pie crust your grandma made from scratch, even if it was a little lopsided and leaked peach filling. It’s in the blanket you crocheted during a tough winter to keep your hands busy and your heart full. It’s in the hand-lettered card that took way longer than it should’ve but made someone’s day.

Homemade isn’t just about saving money or “making do.” It’s about making meaning.

The trouble is, meaning can’t always be measured. You can’t scan a price tag and get a sense of the time, thought, or effort that went into something homemade. That casserole at the church potluck? Sure, it might not win any gourmet awards, but if it was made with love and the last of the summer tomatoes, it tells a better story than anything frozen and reheated in the church kitchen microwave.

Now, here’s something I find a bit funny. Have you ever noticed how we don’t hold store-bought items to the same standards as homemade ones?

Someone knits a scarf, and we inspect it like it’s going under a microscope. “Oh, you dropped a stitch right here.” But let someone hand you a machine-made scarf from the mall with a crooked price tag still stuck to it, and suddenly, it’s high fashion. In fact, they might praise it just because it came with a logo tag.

Now explain to me how that makes sense?

We judge homemade projects like they’re auditioning for a craft show ribbon, while store-bought items get a free pass just because they came with a receipt.

That’s like judging someone’s homegrown tomato because it’s not perfectly round—while scarfing down a mealy store-bought one that tastes like cardboard.

Homemade might not always be perfect, but it’s perfectly real—and isn’t that worth something?

I want to say this gently, with a kind nudge from one porch rocker to another: it takes guts to make something with your own hands and then show it to the world. You’re putting a little piece of yourself out there—whether it’s a wonky wood shelf you built for the pantry, or a loaf of bread that sank in the middle but still tastes like heaven when toasted. When you give someone a homemade item, you’re saying, “Here. I made this with my own two hands. I hope you like it.” That’s tender. That’s vulnerable. And that’s exactly why it matters so much.

It’s easier to pick up a gift card than to try your hand at something you’re not sure you’ll get right. But I’ll tell you a secret—homemade isn’t about getting it right. It’s about doing it anyway.

It’s about trying your hand at jam-making even if your first batch turned into a science experiment and made the lids pop off like a popcorn kernel in hot oil. It’s about sewing a tote bag that looks a little uneven but carries library books like a champ. It’s about showing up with a handmade offering and trusting that the heart behind it will shine through—even if your glue gun betrayed you and the ribbon is off-center.

The truth is, every stitch, stir, and scribble is a quiet act of courage.

And yet, we’ve been taught to shrug it off. I’ve seen folks hand someone a handmade gift and say, “It’s not much…” or “It’s just something I threw together…” when really, it was hours of thoughtful work, probably with a few do-overs and a near-meltdown in the middle.

We ought to stop doing that—stop apologizing for things we made with care. If something’s homemade, we should say it loud and proud. “Yes, I made it—and I hope you enjoy it, because I put a whole lot of heart into it.”

And let’s not even get started on how mainstream culture has tried to repackage “homemade” as a trendy aesthetic. Ever notice how once a celebrity takes up baking sourdough or knitting scarves, suddenly it's cool? They call it "artisanal" or "curated." But your cousin Linda’s been making the same stuff for 30 years and still gets asked, “Have you ever thought about turning this into a business?” Like it’s only valuable if it comes with a profit margin.

Well, maybe Linda doesn’t want to turn her joy into inventory. Maybe she just wants to make what she loves and share it with people who’ll appreciate it.

Or, when your Aunt Edna offers you a jar of her homemade pickles, suddenly folks get skeptical. “Did she use a pressure canner? Was it FDA approved? Is this legal?”

Why is it only impressive when it’s wrapped in glossy pages or comes from someone with a million followers? Aunt Edna has been making pickles since before most food bloggers were in diapers, thank you very much. And they probably taste so much better than any jar you can get in a store.

It’s time we stop acting like skill only counts when it’s been commercialized.

There’s a Japanese concept I love called wabi-sabi. It’s all about finding beauty in imperfection and simplicity. And that, my friend, is homemade in a nutshell.

Homemade items aren’t supposed to look mass-produced. They aren’t supposed to be flawless. They’re supposed to carry fingerprints, quirks, and a little story behind them. That slightly crooked table your neighbor built? It holds more history than any sleek IKEA model.

Wabi-sabi says: celebrate the flaws. Love the uneven stitches. Appreciate the jam that never quite set but tastes like summer memories.

Let’s be honest. Sometimes homemade is how we say, “I love you,” without actually saying the words.

It’s in the soup you take to a sick friend, the afghan you send to a new mama, or the hand-poured candle you gift during a hard season. It’s showing up with your time, your energy, your hands—and offering it freely.

You’re not just giving a thing. You’re giving a piece of yourself.

And frankly, that’s braver—and more beautiful—than any store-bought gift could ever be.

So next time you hear the word homemade, I hope you smile. I hope you picture hands busy with purpose. I hope you see not “less than,” but more than—more heart, more meaning, more soul.

Let’s stop apologizing for the cookies that aren’t symmetrical. Let’s stop downplaying the blanket we made with yarn that went on sale three months ago. Let’s proudly say, “Yep. I made that.” And if someone sniffs at it? Offer them a seat on the porch and a slice of homemade pound cake. I’ll have a heart-to-handmade heart with them and set them straight – WHILE I’m sampling your homemade jam on a fresh slice of bread right out fo the oven. 

Homemade isn’t just about making things. It’s about making a life—a slower, more intentional, more loving one.

And that, my friend, is something to be proud of.

Thanks for spending a little time on the porch with me today. Next week, we’re going to talk about how “handmade” doesn’t just belong in the craft room—it lives in the kitchen, the garden, the garage, and everywhere in between.