Page 12 of Knot Baked Out For This
Some people dress to impress on their first day. I dust myself like a donut that got a little too enthusiastic with the powdered sugar and has no regrets about it.
First up: Cinnamon Soul Cookies, because if I'm going down, I'm going down with my signature item front and center.
I scoop the dough with an ice cream scoop that's older than my failed marriage and twice as reliable, roll each ball in spiced sugar with the devotion of someone performing a religious ritual, and line them up on the biggest sheet tray with the kind of precision that suggests I'm either very professional or very anxious.
It's the second one. It's definitely the second one.
The kitchen fills with that sticky, nostalgic scent that makes people want to cry and call their grandmothers—molasses and vanilla and a secret pinch of smoked cinnamon that I stole from a recipe my grandmother never actually gave me but I reverse-engineered through spite, determination, and approximately forty-seven failed attempts.
I know every bakery has their "signature item," the thing they're known for, the reason people drive twenty minutes out of their way. But these are mine in a way that goes beyond business. Not because they're perfect—they're absolutely not perfect, they're temperamental and unpredictable and sometimes they spread too much or crack in weird ways. But because they're stubborn. They refuse to behave exactly how I want them to. They have their own ideas about what they're going to do.
They spread when they feel like it. They crack on top in patterns that look almost intentional but are really just chaos with good lighting. They're hard to get exactly right, but they're always sweet in the end, always worth the effort.
Kind of like me, on a good day. On a bad day, we're both disasters held together by sugar and stubborn refusal to quit, but at least we're disasters that taste good and smell amazing.
When the cookies hit the oven racks, the air changes in a way that's almost magical. Heat and sugar combine into somethingthat feels like velvet wrapping around my chest, loosening the vice grip of anxiety I didn't fully realize was there. For the first time since I woke up at 4 AM in a cold sweat, I can actually breathe.
I cycle through the rest of the prep with increasing confidence, or at least decreasing terror. Pumpkin scone batter, mixed last night and resting in the fridge, ready and waiting for its moment. Maple croissant logs, cold from the fridge where they've been laminating for two days, sliced with a sharp knife into perfect spirals and arranged on parchment like edible artwork.
I count the rows twice, touching each croissant like I'm casting a spell for luck or protection or just the basic hope that today won't be a complete disaster and I won't have to shut down within a week.
I glance at the clock on the wall—the one that came with the place and runs three minutes slow, which I keep meaning to fix but haven't.
Twenty minutes until official opening. I'm ahead of schedule, which is both good and dangerous. Good because being prepared is professional. Dangerous because it means I have time to think, and thinking is my worst enemy right now. Thinking leads to spiraling. Spiraling leads to panic attacks. Panic attacks lead to hiding in the bathroom and calling my sister to tell her I'm moving back to her basement.
I move to the front of the shop, hands cramping slightly from how hard I've been kneading without realizing it, leaving little half-moon indents in my palms from my own fingernails digging in.
The bakery's front room is what sold me on this place when I saw it six months ago, when I was still living in my sister's basement and dreaming of escape. It's a perfect microcosm of everything I wanted—copper backsplash that catches light likemagic, hanging pots that probably haven't been used in a decade but look perfect anyway, sturdy wood countertops that have seen better days but wear their scars like badges of honor. Shelves stacked with mismatched mugs in every color and handmade pie plates, each one painted with a different terrible pun by some previous owner with a sense of humor: "Whisk Taker," "I Like Big Bundts," "Bake the World a Better Place."
Everything glows like someone set an Instagram filter to "October Forever" and then cranked it up another three notches for good measure.
Someone—me, I guess, though it feels like it was a different version of me who had more energy and optimism—set up a display table dead-center of the front window. I fuss with it now, arranging and rearranging until it looks less like "desperate new business trying too hard" and more like "charming local establishment that's been here forever."
Candles first—a trio of pumpkin-spice votives that I light and relight until the flames actually behave and stop trying to set fire to the decorative corn I thought would be cute but is actually a fire hazard. A plate of fresh-baked Cinnamon Soul Cookies goes next to a squat glass pumpkin full of business cards that I definitely didn't spend three hours designing last week while having a minor breakdown about fonts.
The whole thing looks like a Pinterest fever dream had a baby with a fall festival and then that baby grew up and opened a bakery. I'm not sure if I should be proud or embarrassed, so I'm settling on both simultaneously.
I step back and examine my work with the critical eye of someone who's never fully satisfied with anything they create. The bakery cases are actually full, which feels like a minor miracle. Pumpkin muffins with actual chunks of pumpkin, not that sad canned stuff. Maple croissants that smell like trees and butter decided to have a passionate love affair. Those sconespeople allegedly travel two towns over to buy, though I'll believe that when I see actual evidence and not just the realtor's sales pitch. Plus an experimental batch of "ghost cookies"—sugar cookies with little chocolate chips for eyes that are either adorable or vaguely terrifying depending on your relationship with anthropomorphized baked goods.
The cash register is barely holding together—the drawer sticks every third try and makes a noise like it's dying—but at least it opens. Eventually. With enough force. The chalkboard menu above my head lists every single treat, hand-lettered in orange and gold with the shaky precision of someone who's had too much coffee and not enough sleep for approximately three weeks.
Outside, Maple Street is still quiet in that early morning way where the world feels like it's holding its breath. Cobblestones gleam with morning dew like someone polished them specifically for this moment. A couple of porch pumpkins stare blankly from across the street, either watching me or just existing with that particularly judgy energy that carved pumpkins always seem to have.
For a second—just one perfect, crystalline second—I feel like I'm alone in the world. And it's not bad. It's actually kind of nice, this moment before everything starts, before customers and opinions and the very real possibility of failure walk through that door.
Then the nerves come roaring back with a vengeance. Quick, sharp, hot as opening an oven door directly into your face. My hands start shaking again. My chest tightens. That familiar panic that says "you can't do this, you've never been able to do anything right, why did you think this time would be different."
I reach for the tea kettle like it's a life raft, flick the switch with more force than necessary, and pour myself a mug of "Calming Meadow" tea that's mostly cinnamon bark and applepeel and approximately zero percent effective at actual calming but at least gives me something to do with my hands.
The ritual is what counts. The familiar motion of pouring, watching steam rise, wrapping my hands around the warm ceramic, the moment of pretending I have my shit together and am a functional adult who makes good decisions.
My hands finally stop their aggressive jittering. Progress. Small, but I'll take it.
I set about wiping every surface with the focused intensity of someone channeling their anxiety into aggressive cleaning. Counters gleam, and I have the hand towels to prove it—now thoroughly streaked brown and orange from scone batter and butter and my own neurotic need for everything to be spotless. There's a system to it that makes sense only to me but feels absolutely essential: sweep the crumbs, polish the wood, sweep again because you definitely missed some. Top off the sugar shakers even though they're already full. Refill the napkin caddy. Double-check the line of candles, straightening each wick so they burn evenly because asymmetrical candle flames are basically inviting chaos and bad luck.
Everything has to be just right. Not because I expect the town to notice—they probably won't, they're probably too busy judging other aspects of my existence—but because I will. Because if I can control this, maybe I can control something. Because perfection in the small things makes the big things feel slightly less terrifying.
I'm elbow-deep in the pastry case, rearranging muffins that don't need rearranging, when the first real sunlight of the morning hits.
