heal & zeal
When I was 12 years old I was determined to conquer the world. Of course, by that I mean my little world, full of strawberry lip gloss and forbidden recess activities. Every class break, I and a group of my closest accomplices would run out to the bars on the playground and wait our turn for a chance at tempting fate. A twirling victory or, as it turns out a possible peril, we called the death drop. We would climb up and sit precariously on the cold, thin metal horizontal bar, clasp our nervously clammy hands in front of us, and swing them over our heads with enough momentum to swing ourselves- hands free- backward and underneath the bar. And, for those brave enough to swing with all our might, flip our legs down just in time to land on our feet from six feet in the air. The death drop, and all activities with similar tones of endangerment, was of course sternly prohibited by the school. But we were twelve-year-old girls, full of just enough rebellion and courageously painted pink lips to consider this a dare.
I remember telling myself that today was the day. I climbed up and grasped the bar tightly with both hands, fearfully releasing my fingers one by one. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, felt the bar catch behind my knees and a rush of wind hit my back. The next thing I knew, by sheer grace and luck, I was standing on the ground below. Alive and in one piece. I could not believe it. Feeling like a world class gymnast I raced back up and did it again, over and over. It wasn’t until the fifth attempted display of my forbidden athleticism, however, that I found the peril. Splat, face down, with a mouth full of sand and a freshly broken arm. Worse, a walk to the school nurses office trying to explain how it all happened.
The next day I chose watermelon lip gloss, let my friends sign my cast, and talked about how much I couldn’t wait to do it again. That’s youth. Our ambitions prevail and damage heals quickly.
There are so many days when being in the kitchen of our little bakery makes me feel the same zeal of that twelve-year-old girl. Every week I put out a menu including as many time intensive, hand made breads and pastries as I think I can reliability produce. Then the thrill comes as I try to carry out those plans and dare myself to do more. Just like the death drop, most of the time we land on our feet. But every once in a while, a fallen moment reminds me of the risk. This was that week. A few days ago I hurt my back. I wish I could tell you a daredevil story of bravery and feat, but honestly I have no idea how I did it. In my head I’m still as determined as a twelve-year-old, so we pushed through and baked. Truth be told, after the last bake today, I realized I was more broken that I wanted to accept.
In the spirit and wisdom of age, I’ve decided it best to take a short break and heal. If only because I think it’s the fastest way to take on the next dare. We will be very happy to see you Saturday, March 1st for the next menu zeal.
We couldn’t do this without you.
At 1871 we still believe in the goodness of small batch, artisan made bread and pastry. Simply, honestly, and passionately, We never want to trade our values, beliefs, or your trust in our baked goods for the loss in quality and care involved in larger production. That’s just not us. But the truth is, baking with these values is not profitable. It’s a labor of love driven by a lifelong dream. In our undying efforts to maintain our standards for the highest quality ingredients and freshly baked breads and pastries, we do things differently. Every day we do our very best to plan our quantities to meet reservations and walk-in service as closely as possible. In fact, we hope to sell out just as our doors close for the day. That’s because product sitting on our shelves after closing is an expensive loss to a small bakery like ours, and one we don’t ever want to pass on to our customers in higher pricing or in poor value stale, day-old products. We also know this causes us to sell out sooner than we’d all hope from time to time, and we don’t want that either. You should be able to come in and get a fresh loaf of bread or pastry any time we’re open. So we need your help. We want to hear your requests, the bread and pastry you can’t wait to see again, and reservations to help us determine quantities. We need to hear from you, because we couldn’t do any of this without you.
Thank you for being the best part of our bakery dream.
Chilly mornings and cold toes
Happy Menu Monday!
https://thebakeryat1871.com/our-menu-1
I’m watching a squirrel and a bird darting and diving into the branches of a tree outside my window. It’s either unbridled excitement or a fervor of anger. Who can really tell with a squirrel, they spend a ridiculous amount of time shooting little pew-like sounds at the slightest annoyance to their day. Then again, I’d be jumping around too on this 6 degree morning, just trying to beat the chill. It reminds me of the frosty mornings I would let my Mom’s horses out of their stalls and watch them leap into the pasture, jumping and turning , trying to warm up, with amazing grace for such large creatures. Beautiful, really, if I was quick enough to get the gate open and stay out of their path.
On cold mornings things always seem to be a little more charged. Maybe it’s breathing in the crisp air or our cold toes begging for warmth, but I think winter cold is just natures way of telling us to get moving. So I will take the cue of this bitterly cold, but stunningly blue sky morning and tackle some long overdue checklist items, beginning with several new breads and pastries. After all, how could I resist the radiant warmth of commercial ovens on a day like this? Let’s consider baking my way of getting the warmth moving through my toes.
I hope you’re all doing something you love on this stunning day, too.
You make us better.
This morning I was cleaning out the bakery counter and there, wedged way back behind the drawer, was one of our first business cards. It was a soft matte white with our logo and the simple phrase “your artisan baker”. I couldn’t help but smile. It reminded me of how far we’ve come, but more importantly, the things that have stayed the same.
These days it seems the word artisan is tacked onto so many things, it feels like its lost a bit of meaning. Or maybe just understanding. To us, it means a small batch product hand crafted by an artisan. Someone who spent years of dedication, driven by passion, to make something truly special. Something that you can see, feel, and taste the love in.
The hard part is, things that good don’t come from large levels of production. They can’t fill store shelves every day of the week for hours and hours endlessly. If we’ve learned anything since we made the promise to be your artisan baker, its that high production and long hours takes a real toll on quality. That’s because each and every product is made in the dedicated, passion filled hands of a real person. An artisan.
In this crazy world of convenience, we often forget. The good things are rarely convenient, but always worth it. Maybe more importantly, they let us hold something in our hands that reminds us of the value in people.
Like many artisans, our whims and inspirations are fueled by taking an overdue rest, enjoying family, and experiencing new things. Taking a break from focusing on our workspace and opening our eyes to the incredible things going on in the world around us. Exploring and reinvigorating. So we want to thank you, from the bottom of our hearts, for allowing us to take the last few weeks to refill our measuring cups with inspiration. Your understanding and support means the world to us, and it makes us better. Which makes our small town amazing.
We are incredibly blessed to be surrounding by people that value people, and all the honestly good things in life.
We just walked back into this beautiful old house, and were immediately wrapped in the care you’ve filled it with for the past two years. Refreshed, inspired and ready to continue our artisan bakery journey.
We will reopen with special January days and hours, on Saturdays from 8am to noon, for walk in and reservations.
See you soon!
A million little gifts
I have always loved the snow. I think there’s something magical about a million little white flakes dancing through the air, falling so quietly to blanket the ground and transform the world. It makes me feel like someone made a wish and turned us all over in a bright, glittering snow globe.
In the ever-charming way that Mr. Amazing and I are always polar opposites, he doesn’t find it quite so magical. It’s something I learned after we arrived in the mountains for our first date, on December 1st, to several inches of snow. He played it first-date-cool, and I tried not to notice his nervously tight grip on the steering wheel, or his muffled swearing when he lost his footing installing tire chains. But it wasn’t long before I heard the story.
When he was young, he went to a winter camp with his church group and all the children went out on area trails for snow activities. After several hours of sledding and riding snow mobiles, he found himself away from the group and alone. There he was in several inches of snow, surrounded by endless trees, with the darkness of night and bitter cold setting in. Not another sole to be found. Now he might tell this story as if he had no fault in the seeming abandonment, and maybe he didn’t. But we know boys, and his curiosity and exploration are largely unparalleled among them. We are talking, after all, about the young version of the man who genuinely considers applying for the series “Alone”, every season it airs. Nonetheless, the young boy who turned into the man I fell in love with, had to trek through miles and miles of deep winter snow to find the warmth and safety of camp. The fact that he did, I’ve always seen as a testament to his character, endurance, and strength. But I think he still quietly feels the occasional ping of trauma. Despite this, Mr. Amazing still planned our very first date in the snow, simply because I mentioned how much I love it.
As a magical reminder of our first date, and our wedding day on December 1st in the snow, we have seen at least a flurry at the beginning of every December since we were married. It’s something I can only believe is the very best kind of gift- second only to Mr. Amazing and I finding each other. I suspect even the little boy inside my husband is beginning to feel magic in the falling flakes. As we celebrate another year together I’m thinking about the character building and endurance that comes in life’s trail, and the happy memories and moments I wouldn’t trade for the smoothest path. Moreover, how lucky we all are to share the million little gifts along the way. And, tonight, as we sit watching little white flakes dance through another early December flurry, I’m wishing each of you a million little gifts and lots of seasonal magic.
Where we said I do.
a fall morning with a new view
When I was a kid our house was next to a large, open field. On fall mornings the fog would roll in and fill the open space with a white curtain so dense you sometimes couldn’t see a few feet. My sister and I used to love trying to be surrounded by it, hoping it would feel like twirling in a cloud. We would run as fast as we could and chase it, wishing it would get thicker and thicker around us. After all, it looked thicker further away, so if we just ran fast enough…
These days sunrise on any given fall Thursday morning would find me in the kitchen rolling dough or shuffling loaves in an oven, rarely glancing outside. However, this particular day, I found myself with a change of view. Since Mr. Amazing and I decided that sanity demanded a pause on baking for the sake of progress I’ve been quietly missing my typical morning hustle, the feeling of silky soft croissant dough under my fingers, and watching bread rise on a stone deck. At 7am this morning I relatively leisurely poured my morning tea and enjoyed the warmth of the cup in my hand, which made me look out a window. And behold, there was a white cloud settling around the golden maple leaves. As the sun peaked through the branches, I could see the soft haze blowing gently in the cool morning breeze. I walked outside in the dewy chill and wished, just for a moment, that I could run fast enough.
We all chase so many things in our lives, from the daily grind to dreams for the future. All in the hope of, someday, twirling in our own magical cloud. Once in a while we get to pause, look up, and realize how much wonder is right around us.
Sometimes a pause opens our minds and hearts to a new view. Part nostalgia for the past, part appreciation for where we are, and part new views in the cloud for the future. So, today, I hope you grab a cup of hot tea or coffee, take a deep breath of crisp fall air, and twirl in the fog.
Its a good day for a good day.
There may still be a little frost on the grass, but these beautiful fall mornings are just a little bit of heaven. Sunny blue skies, leaves just beginning to turn shades of gold and red, a crisp in the air, and my morning tea steaming.
Today is a good day for a good day.
You may have noticed we’ve been a little quiet lately, with a few less open hours. We have been trying to make strides while juggling everything this adventure offers. However, we’ve learned that sometimes you have to pause and prioritize to move forward. So, beginning on this very good day, we are spending the next couple of weeks making dreams come true and bringing you an even better 1871. Just as soon as I finish my tea.
Enjoy the day and we’ll see you soon!
with all of our gratitude
Last night we wrapped up the 2024 Sparta Green Market season and, as we wheeled in the empty baking racks and tattered menus, I found myself remembering this moment last year. Exhausted, mind reeling with thoughts of what went well, what we could do better, and which newly introduced market items I was excited to bring to our regular bakery menu. But more than any of that was immense gratitude for every one who showed up smiling and excited. I am always humbled and, frankly, overwhelmed by how supportive each of you has been to this crazy bakery dream. The 2023 market season was beyond my every hope, and I thought nothing could be better.
You proved me wrong.
This market season was unbelievable. We were thrilled to work harder and bring more bread and pastry than, even a year ago, we would have thought possible. I can't even begin to tell you how happy it makes my heart to see you come and enjoy the things we love baking. The entire season was a blur of dreams coming true and so many smiling faces. Then, last night, we sold out in less than an hour of market opening. All the gratitude in the world sometimes feels like an understatement.
Thank you for showing up and supporting this adventure. You are, and always will be, the very best part of our bakery dream.
how did you get here?
People so often ask how we got here. Sometimes life has a way of leading you where you never expected.
The Bakery just happened. It was never planned. If you had asked me in 2021 if I would ever open a bakery, I couldn’t have imagined it. My life had taken many directions, but never this one. I have been baking for over thirty years, for family and friends and anyone I could share it with. I adore it. But baking as a career was something I only secretly dreamed of. I never thought it could happen. Looking back, it feels like so many little puzzle pieces of my life finally fit together. For the first time. However, even when all the pieces were lining up, I needed a graceful nudge.
In the summer of 2021 Rob and I were putting the last of the paint brush strokes and cabinet knobs on what we thought would be our forever house. We had spent three years remodeling, down to the finest detail. It was, or so we thought at the time, perfect. But life has a way of changing things, dramatically, when you least expect it. Beyond our quiet home and hilly acres, things were rapidly becoming unfamiliar. Day by turbulent day. And not for the better. We were feeling more and more unsettled in the same town we had met in high school -so many years ago. Then, one afternoon I smelled the distinctive haze of smoke and looked up to see a thick, pink sky. A funny thing happens when you live in an area rampant with wildfires. It becomes normal to have a go-box with invaluable essentials next to your door, at all times, during the summer months. You have planned for the moment, knowing exactly what you need to load and when. It’s a grace and a curse, in many ways. It is chaotic, but the kind of semi-organized chaos that allows your mind and heart a little bit of time to feel. So, we did what we could do. Then opened our pre-loaded apps to the fire alerts and sat, for hours, watching the fire grow and the evacuation boundaries enlarge. By luck, grace, and skill, those firefighters stopped the spread when that red line was less than one mile from us. And, for the second time in three years, we were spared by less than a fingertip on a map.
Sometimes, whether through life changes, growth, or even wildfires, home stops being home. The ties fade, the differences and unsettling feelings grow, and you realize all you really need is each other and an opportunity to build a new life you love.
In August of 2021 Rob and I packed up the few things we couldn’t live without, said goodbye to the home we built piece by piece, and drove 2500 miles. Several exhausting days later, in the middle of the night, we pulled into a 151-year-old house we bought sight unseen. With no electricity or water, and barely a moon glow. If I’m being honest, everything about that night was terrifying. Being surrounded by a town we didn’t know, walking on loud creaky floors, and asking ourselves what in the world we just did. Not quite ready to go into the main house, we blew up an air mattress and did our best to sleep on the floor of the old soda shop building.
Then the sun came up.
The path to the 1871 house
We took our first steps into the house’s foyer and watched the sunlight glow on the original wood banister. We looked up and found a ceiling with exposed, hand-hewn wood beams and old, square nails. And we looked out at the vibrantly blue hydrangea leaves through panes of old, rippled glass. Room by room, we could feel the history and stories of this beautiful old house surrounding us. When we stopped and looked at each other, we knew it had to be shared.
The foyer and bakery entrance
Old houses have souls. They have stories. That have held lives lived with tragedy and happiness. They stood long before us, and (if we do our job) they will continue to provide a beautiful setting for incredible lives after us. They absorb little bits of everyone who walks through the halls. The smell of cooking in the old fireplaces, the lost pieces of a child’s artwork that fell behind a cabinet, the notches on wood from furniture moving in and out, and the whims and inspirations of layers and decades of fancy new wallpapers. Our stories become part of the house. We all become part of it’s history.
Within a year of moving in, I found myself with too little work and more idle time than I would like. I think we were also feeling like we hadn’t made this town our home. The holidays were approaching, and I was missing baking for family. I didn’t realize how much I loved filling holiday tables with every imaginable dessert. One day in November I asked Rob if I should bake a Thanksgiving tart and offer it on the community Facebook page. He absent mindedly said, “sure” and went on with his work. So I baked a pumpkin tart, and did my best to photograph it in a beautiful, but very dark wood filled house. Then I hit post, having already decided no one was ever going to respond. For the most part, that was true. Then the nicest woman messaged and asked for one for her Thanksgiving table. I set out to bake my very best. I made a butter tart crust and roasted the pumpkin. Spiced the custard with just the right balance of cinnamon, ginger and clove. Watched impatiently and nervously through the oven door glass as it baked. Then drizzled it with a homemade salted caramel sauce. On the morning of Thanksgiving, I received a message from the woman that she had gotten sick and wasn’t going to be hosting. However, she still wanted to pick up the tart and send it with her daughter to a friend’s house.
And she did.
The pumpkin tart that started it all
About a day later I got a message from Synergy Herbal Works, that said they had gone to a friend’s house for Thanksgiving and had the most amazing pumpkin tart. She was hoping I would do a pop-up at the store for their Small Business Saturday event. I was so excited, I said “yes!” long before I realized I had no idea what a pop-up was. Everyone there was so incredible, they explained it and let us borrow a table and cloth. I baked everything I could, from bread to cake, for twenty-four hours straight. Still not finishing in time. Rob carried totes of baked goods over, and did his best to set up an attractive table setting. Hour by hour, I brought more and more. The truth was, I had no idea how to bake enough to fill an intimidatingly sized table, and I was shuffling in and out of a home oven as fast as I could. But I was terribly slow and threw half of it away thinking it wasn’t good enough. As I walked through the doors to Synergy with a delivery and finished spreading the pieces out, a customer walked in and turned the corner. She looked at our table and the cards I had rushed to make, and exclaimed, “You’re 1871! I am so excited you’re here; I’ve been looking at your pictures online and wanting to try your baked goods!” You could have knocked me over where I stood.
How did this woman know who we were?
Mr. Amazing and I, the first day of our crazy bakery dream.
Isn't he handsome?
From that moment, it never stopped. Week after week, orders would come in and I would bake everything I could. After a few months we began setting up a table in the foyer of the old house, and inviting people to come in. It was the world’s smallest bakery display on a round table, which still stands in the entry today. And it was all I could do to fill it. A few more months passed, I got a little better at baking quantities, and we were filling that table several times over each day. Rob and I moved my great grandmother’s furniture out of the dining room, and he built a case to hold the bread and pastry. That case became two and a register table and, before we knew it, there was a tiny bakery next to an old fireplace, under hand hewn ceiling beams, in a 153-year-old house. Somehow, it just fit.
For the past couple of years we have been learning and growing slowly. Somehow slower, and faster, than we’d often like. The old B&B kitchen that cooked meals for guests years ago, was now baking racks of sourdough bread, croissants, danishes, scones and anything that sparked an inspired whim. We saved every penny we could and bought equipment, piece by piece, desperately trying to keep up. We made plans, and more plans, and endlessly dreamed of what the future would be. All while waking early to bake everything fresh Wednesdays through Saturdays. As we have grown, through every trial and success, we have known that this quiet dream of mine was somehow meant to be in this very unlikely location. In the walls of a little piece of Sparta’s history, shared with a community that welcomed strangers and gave us a home. Which is why Mr. Amazing named it after the year its story began, in 1871.
We are open for walk-in guests and reservations Wednesday through Saturday, 8am-2pm. As was true the day we began, we continue to bake everything from bread to pastry in a handmade, small batch process. Always baked fresh each day. We spend the days we are closed sourcing and testing the very best ingredients, and being inspired by new whims. Which is why our menu changes every day. Each Monday we post a new menu on our website for the upcoming Wednesday through Saturday, focusing on a selection of artisan breads and seasonal pastries.
Artisan breads
Summer pavlovas
croissant bliss
lemon & thyme meringue danishes
As for the future?
I’ll just say we have lots of inspiration and pages of plans. Because when you find your new home, it's time to build the life of your dreams.
the best things.
Sometimes, Mr. Amazing and I do not agree. Most of the time we can work it out pretty quickly, but every once in a while, disagreements drag on for months. We go about our lives and shared bakery dream around them, like a pothole in the road. Knowing all too well, sooner or later, one of us may hit it with a tire and the other will shrug and try not to do a noticeable victory dance. When the jarring thud has settled, like any two people trying to live a life together, we just appreciate the road traveled and experience gained.
For the past eleven months or so, we have been at odds. Quietly, in the background of this lovely old house. It was the beginning of October last year, 2023, when he first approached me with a suggestion. Being the genuinely caring man he is, he had noticed that very few people knew about our little bakery and he wanted, more than anything, to help make my dream come true. We were scraping every penny together to barely keep up with kitchen equipment and make a dent in our ambitiously high ingredient costs. A marketing budget didn’t exist, much less money for advertising. The truth was, that was more than okay with me. I loved the little bakery we were growing just the way it was. He, however, wanted to tell everyone how great he thought my baking was. He had noticed the Expositor ran a vote called the Reader’s Choice Awards for the best of, well, everything. Including bakers. He brought the published post to me, and suggested we mention it to our customers and ask for their vote the next year. I must have looked at him like he had lost his mind.
I told him no. In fact, I think my exact words were, “absolutely not, don’t you dare”. Serious tone spewing in every word. As the months passed and the voting period grew closer, he continued to mention it, finally asking, “why don’t you want to be voted the best baker?” The truth was, way down deep inside, I did. But no matter how much of a thrill it would be, it was an empty trophy if we solicited the votes. If people thought I was a good baker, they would vote for us. Not as a favor, but because they loved our bread and pastry. It was as simple as that. Real and honest.
If you’re good at what you do, you’ll tell people. If you’re great at what you, they’ll tell you.
For the past year we have given this little bakery dream everything. Blood, sweat, tears, triumphs and massive failures. Like crazy people, we set hopes and goals so lofty we never achieve them. But we keep trying. Then we open our doors and hope, beyond hope, that you like what we’re doing. That we can keep sharing a little piece of ourselves, this wonderful old house, and our love of baking with you. And, if you tell a friend, we grow. Organically and genuinely.
This is the reason we have believed, from day one, that you are the most important part of our bakery dream. Without a penny spent on advertisement and zero marketing budget, you grew us as Sparta’s little bakery. You are, without a doubt, as much a part of this crazy bakery dream as we are.
How do I know?
You made The Bakery at 1871 the Reader’s Choice Best of the Best Baker for 2024.
There is no tone I can convey in writing to say this with enough gratitude, so I’ll say simply,
thank you, with all of our hearts.
Then I’ll walk back to the kitchen and put all of the caring and love into more bread and pastry.
I might even skip the victory dance when I tell Mr. Amazing. Maybe.
See you soon.
what are you doing tomorrow?
It’s not often enough we get handed a fresh, vibrantly ripe peach from the hands that picked it. Or get to listen to the grower tell us all the things that can be made with his freshly harvested, stunningly fringed lion’s mane mushroom. Or even enjoy a perfectly sweetened, refreshing glass of real lemonade just squeezed from the hands of Sparta’s youngest lemonade expert.
No, it’s all too rare.
Which is why, from May through October, we are so thrilled to be a little part of the Sparta Green Market. From 4:00-7:00 pm, our pavilion next to the square fills with over 40 vendors. Each bringing their produce, wood working, flowers, plants, pastas, meat, lemonade, bread, pastry, and even local craft beer directly to you.
It’s like the most amazing, fresh, locally sourced store you could imagine…but so much better.
When you buy directly, the very best happens.
Our farmers, growers, crafters, artisans and refreshment makers get stronger and better. Every day. They get to meet you and hear all the things you love and want more of from their skilled hands. Which means we all get more of the great things we want. Sourced, grown and made locally.
In addition, these incredibly hard-working people can sell their goods and efforts for the most reasonable price, all while using 100% (yep, all) of the proceeds to grow better and stronger.
Moreover, you get the very best. When freshly farmed goods go directly from the farmer or grower’s hands to yours, they’re not souring, saddening, or staling on a store shelf. They get picked, boxed for transport, and brought to the market. Where you can savor every bit of their fresh life on your plate. Fresh food is not only the best food, it’s the best value. Always.
Finally, when a farmer or grower hands you the fruits of their life’s work, you have an incredible opportunity. You can ask real, direct questions about what you’re eating and hear the answers straight from the person who grew or raised it. How often can you say that these days?
So, tomorrow, go meet the people who grow and make real, good, honest food. Shop for dinner (and lunch and breakfast). Enjoy Peyton’s lemonade or Calf Killer’s beer. Or both. Ask Anthony Villa how to grow a delicious organic garden of your own, or why your tomatoes didn’t go so well this year. Marvel at the talent of so many local craftspeople. Grab a pastry or loaf of freshly baked bread, and enjoy music with an evening out in the beauty of our little town. Because the Sparta Green Market is a market like no other.
It only comes 6 times a year, but spending an evening with the real farmers, growers, crafters, and artisans is not only a great time, it could change the way you think about real, good, food (and give you an amazing way to find it right here in our community, every day).
See you tomorrow!
a new view
In the fervor of last week’s reorganizing, reshaping, re-planning and re-hoping, we moved my desk from the main floor of 1871 to our private living space upstairs. I knew it would be a bit inconvenient running up and down those stairs daily, but it had to be done. Although I never could have imagined it was possible, we are rapidly running out of room for our downstairs ambitions. Which, on a complete side note, leads me to a funny little story.
When Mr. Amazing and I bought this lovely property while sitting 2500 miles away, the marketing said it was 6,018 square feet with 4 ½ bathrooms. I remember the number because it was absolutely terrifying. I mean, can you imagine trying to keep up with and maintain (much less clean) 6,018 square feet of 150-year-old house? When we pulled away from our 1,500 square foot 1 bathroom house, made the long journey, and finally stepped inside 1871 -weeks after committing-, I was pretty emotionally split between excitement and fear. Truth told, I had a few horrible dreams about endlessly scrubbing toilets and wood paneling. When daylight hit, we walked through every room. As we gawked and awed at it’s beauty, we also realized it didn’t feel like 6,000 square feet. It was larger than we were used to, definitely, but it’s not like we got lost walking through thousands of square feet of space. Although, I have taken to calling Mr. Amazing more than once, because aimlessly walking around to find him seemed like a chore. Still, something was off. When the appraiser measured it, this old house was actually just over 3,300 square feet. Something I have always been a little relieved about. Even more interesting, we’ve never found that fourth bathroom. Nonetheless, nightmares and toilet scrubbing evaded, the last little corner my desk had been pushed into was now, too, needed for our ever-growing dreams.
So, Mr. Amazing dragged the desk and all its pieces and parts up the old stairwell (carefully, of course). And I plunked it at the top of the stairs, smacked dab in the middle of our hallway, next to a light filled set of french doors. They walk out to the balcony over the entrance to this lovely old house. A balcony I over-stuffed with my love of plants and flowers, hoping to create a little area to take an occasional breath or quite moment. But never did. For a couple of years now, I have spent all day every day focused on dough. On stainless steel and wood tables, bins of flour, whirring mixers, and kneading hands…all there as a canvas and tool for my dough obsession. Today, however, I walked upstairs to write the week’s menu and felt the sun streaming through those glass doors and onto my leg. I glanced up, appreciating the sunny moment, and saw something I hadn’t taken the time to notice since before our 2500-mile journey. A hummingbird, hovering and fluttering between colorful, nectar filled blooms on the balcony. I couldn’t help but smile, remembering that all kinds of beauty in life is still going on around me. I only have to stop and notice. Just like that, with only a little bit of effort, an inconvenient change brought me a whole new view.
It is Sparta Green Market week and, as I finish this menu, I’m heading back down those stairs to the mixers and tables, to begin carrying out all those breads and pastries. We will begin sourcing, planning and prepping to be ready for the all-out craziness of that morning’s massive fresh bake. In doing so, with hopes of retaining some sanity, we will have special hours this week. We wish you a week of good changes, quiet moments, new views, and (always) good bread and pastry.
https://thebakeryat1871.com/our-menu-1
See you soon!
Happiness in a vase.
For some time now, certainly well over a year, I have had an Instagram crush. I have followed along as a locally growing, regenerative farm shared some of the most beautiful pictures of their family's waterfall and pasture explorations, inspired vignettes from their flawlessly designed farm house, delicious seasonal treasures from their fruit and vegetable gardens, swoon worthy plum galettes, and (deeply adored by my heart) some of the most vibrant and simply elegant fresh flowers arrangements I have ever seen. The truth is, I love flowers. They have a way of making any space feel warm, fresh, and alive with happiness. But when grown and arranged by the inspired vision and hands of Saltese Farm, they are truly a little piece of nature's perfection.
A few weeks ago I walked out from The Bakery kitchen after a very long day and found an arrangement of flowers on our foyer table. Sitting there, in an unassuming glass vase, was a collection of freshly cut stems and greenery that made me forget where I was going. Shades of pink from softly tinted to deeply vibrant placed against a million textures of green leaves and dabbled with tiny delicate blue blooms. All arranged in that perfectly imperfect way that defines casually elegant. Like stumbling on a meadow of wildflowers in spring. Pure, simple, happiness.
Mr. Amazing told me that an incredibly friendly woman came by The Bakery and dropped them off for us to enjoy. So, I left them there to greet our customers and bring a smile as I came and went each day. For the next week they were a quiet moment of cheerful peace in my otherwise crazy days. And I was so very grateful. When they had lived their life I washed the vase, set it aside, and hoped this generous stranger would return one day.
About a week later it happened again and, by some miracle, I was out of the kitchen. I may have ambushed her with excitement when I saw her walk through our doors holding another lovely vase of flowers. Even more stunning than the first. I was so excited, I realized shortly after, that I forgot to get her name.
Yesterday, this incredibly kind woman came to The Bakery once again. Sadly, I missed her. However, I walked out and found two positively stunning vases of flowers with blooms of summer white, soft pink and just-barely-fall orange. This time, cradled by soft and fragrant sage leaves. I kept wishing I knew her name so I could thank her again. I don't think she could have any idea how many bright smiles she has brought to us and our customers.
Today I had a moment and opened Instagram to see what was going on beyond our little doors, and you'll never believe what scrolled across my feed. An image popped up of an unassuming glass vase holding a perfect arrangement of summer white flowers, softly pink dahlias, just barely fall orange petals, and soft sage leaves sitting in The Bakery at 1871 foyer. Carried with a sweet note from our neighbor, Saltese Farm.
Every day I am truly amazed by the kind and generous people in our community, and the gifts and passions they share. I always say its the little things that makes life grand, and the flowers and caring from Saltese Farm prove that very true.
Happiness in a vase, by a wonderful family doing the most amazing things.
bigger plans & fresh baked bread.
At least once a week someone new walks in 1871 and looks around at this beautiful old house, filled with things from furniture to glassware, and asks if the house came with everything in it. It’s a moment that always makes us smile because that couldn’t be further from how it happened.
Sometimes, perfect matches just find each other.
When Mr. Amazing and I walked into this old house a few years ago, it was empty. Of furnishings anyway. The old walls, creaky floors, and 153-year-old hand-hewn ceiling beams were all it took to make us fall in love. That, and an overwhelming feeling of rich history. Not a stitch of furniture or even a trinket was here. But as fate would have it, our silly old souls had spent years collecting and safekeeping furniture, accessories, and dishes from generations past. An odd fact, given the “dream” house my dear husband had just finished remodeling (mere moments before finding 1871) was strikingly modern. It’s almost as if, unbeknownst to us, there was a plan all along.
By the time the moving trucks arrived, we had said goodbye to all of our contemporary pieces and began unloading the things that are now all around us. From the dining room furniture we ate every holiday meal on in my great grandmother’s house, to my grandmother’s china and crystal, to one of the old clocks my parents saved for years to collect, and the ornate urns my mother always displayed out of love (but never really liked). Even the baby grand piano that forever settled the first-year-of-marriage argument between my great grandparents. And the new-to-us treasures I’ve spent years hunting with the love of my life, as he shared the memories of growing up in his grandmother’s antique store. Every old piece in 1871 is a little bit of us, our family, and our story. Each collected and treasured, in a twist of fate that landed exactly where they (and we) are supposed to be.
Mr. Amazing and I never planned to turn our lives upside down and buy an old, historic house built in 1871. We also never planned to open a bakery. But, just a few days in, as we stood in this old, empty house and imagined our things and life in it, we knew life was bigger than the plans we’d made. So, we filled these walls with generations of love and opened the doors to share our passions and lives with you. Inviting so many of you in to be a little part of this house’s history. And, everyday, we thank you for being part of our story, our baking, our days, and a new chapter in the life of this beautiful old house. One loaf and pastry at a time.
Love, Lemons, & Last First Dates
It was the first day of December and I was frantically fussing with a strand of hair that wouldn’t obey while trying to tuck my toes into a pair of very uncomfortable, but its-okay-because-they’re-stunning, shoes. The kind of shoes that are lacking in most common sense, but hopefully the perfect first steps into something new. As I looked at the time I settled on a rash justification that a rogue strand of hair was perfectly imperfect. Then I excitedly dashed outside, straight into several inches of bitterly cold white snowfall, nearly burying my shoes with every step. Despite a horrible choice of shoes in an early December snow, I was having one of those very human moments. Driven by a silly hopeful heartbeat that somehow kept my toes from ever feeling chilly. Even better, I wasn’t alone.
As I clumsily walked through inches of snow in inappropriate shoes, I looked up to see the awkwardly shy boy I remembered from high school had grown into a handsome man, and was walking toward me in a short sleeved, cotton, orange plaid shirt. I couldn’t help but smile. I had mentioned once, in a very early messaging conversation, how much I liked the color orange. It’s one of those seemingly meaningless little things that I never expected anyone would remember. Maybe that’s one of the wonderful things about dating in your late thirties, we’ve all picked up a thing or two. Or, maybe, that’s just one of the many genuine little things about Mr. Amazing that stole my heart from the very first date. Someone willing to hunt down a shirt in an uncommon color and bear the December chill with you, might just be the someone.
He took me to this little log cabin on the edge of a giant lake, turned into a cozy little restaurant. I don’t think he had any idea at the time, but brunch has always been my favorite meal. As I warmed up and looked through the menu, sitting across from a man I hadn’t seen in many years, my eyes landed on lemon poppy seed waffles. Warm, comforting, gently sweet, bright, and a little zesty. In that moment, if great first dates were a meal, that would be it. Twelve years later, a pair of shoes on a shelf and an orange shirt I wash with extra care, I still remember exactly how they tasted but nothing about the chill.
Like Mr. Amazing, lemons and poppy seeds will always warm my heart in a way nothing else could. In fact, I’ve spent many years sneaking a sprinkle of zest or a squeeze of juice into everything possible, sweet or savory, if only for the memory. There’s just something about love and good food that will always bring a smile.
I realize it’s a bit early for citrus season, and they’re not yet at their prime. However, the last week of August is the anniversary of Mr. Amazing and I connecting after many years in separate journeys. It was the beginning of the greatest love of my life. Full of many amazing things, including warmth, comfort, sweetness, and a little zest. I can’t think of a better way to tell him how happy he has made me, than to put it into baking goodness. And share a little more of us with all of you.
As eagerly hopeful as I felt for my last first date, the lemon poppy seed muffin has arrived (eagerly early for the best season) at The Bakery at 1871.
Oh, happy day!
Happy Menu Monday!
First, please let me apologize for the late Monday Menu delivery. I have the absolute best reason for the inconvenience and I can't wait to to tell you all about it.
For some time now we, at 1871, have been struggling behind the bakery doors. In all the very best ways, you all have created and pushed our goals, week after week. If I'm being completely forthright, one year ago, I would have been the first to say I couldn't do what we're doing now. Thankfully, by grace and maybe dumb luck, we have pushed our efficiency, skill, and even taught Mr. Amazing to be a baker (although, I don't think he'll ever believe he can call himself that). Even so, we continually watched your reservations and happy smiles come in, shattering previous week's quantities. And, every week, we questioned if we could really do it.
Last week something absolutely wonderful happened at 1871. A long-time and widely loved customer agreed to walk around the bakery counter and into our crazy chaotic kitchen. Not only does she rival Mr. Amazing for being the friendliest face behind a case, she has already earned a station making -what could become-her famous cookies and scones. So, this Menu Monday it took a little extra time to figure out just how much we could do...now.
The menu looks a little different this week, and we couldn't be more thrilled. We're offering a wider variety and more quantities every day. But most of all, we are filled with grateful hearts and even more crazy chaotic excitement.
https://thebakeryat1871.com/our-menu-1
See you soon!
Happy menu Sunday?!
I'm feeling inspired...
We have so very many reasons to be grateful and happily overwhelmed on a regular basis here at 1871. Seeing you all at The Sparta Green Market is certainly no exception. For the first time, in a long time (maybe ever), I got to spend last Friday evening with you all and see the excitement of the market. From start to nearly finish. So very often I am way, way behind the front of house fun, back in the kitchen (desperately trying to keep up). Even on market nights, I usually bake, bake, bake and spend the evening driving back and forth. However, this past Friday, I helped Mr. Amazing set up and was met with so many smiling faces before setting out a single loaf or pastry. A massive thank you to all of you for waiting patiently for our largest ever bake, helping to carry racks, and even setting up our case. It was everything... in all the very best ways... and we loved every minute. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for being there for one of our best bakery days ever. You are truly amazing, and the reason we adore baking.
After a day away I emerged from my coma-like recovery sleep inspired to turn our menu on it's head. In fact, ridiculously excited. So, our menu is a day early this week and is going to look more than a little new. Filled with seasonally divine peaches, cherries, raspberries, plums, pineapple and Flavorful Fungi pioppino mushrooms, we're mixing new scones, danishes, galettes, tarts, cakes, cruffins, brioche, and meringues.
We haven't forgotten your favorite breads. We will have original country loaf sourdough, rye, blueberry & almond sourdough, rosemary & sea salt sourdough, braided challah, and cinnamon babka. Maybe even ciabatta and brioche loaves.
Last but certainly not least, everyone's favorite coffee is back in! Light and medium roasts, and new varieties and flavors. Including the new mushroom cognition roast. It's a blend of lion's mane and chaga mushrooms in the finest medium roast coffee. All the cognition benefits of these mushrooms in a delicious organic, low acid coffee.
It’s time for a new week and a new menu, and we can’t wait to see you!
our values and quality always come first.
When we opened our doors, almost a year and a half ago, we refused to make compromises on the quality of our ingredients. As a small batch, artisan bakery specializing in breads and pastry, all of our products have a very short list of ingredients. Simple, honest, fresh, and always organic. With so few ingredients, it feels incredibly important to use the very best. So that’s what we do. Every single day.
We also want every loaf and croissant that comes from our kitchen to be a good value for you and your family.
Our standards, process and promises mean we are not the least expensive option. However, we spend immense amounts of time sourcing the very best ingredients, negotiating the cost, and working in very small margins. We have been fighting, month after month, to keep costs as low as possible. However, over the past several months, the cost of making our breads and pastries has increased substantially. We have reached a point where there is simply no margin left to continue absorbing the increases. It is with great regret for all our hardships in increasing cost of living, that we have to raise our prices. However, we still promise…we will always uphold the very highest standards and best value for you.
We never started mixing flour and water for profit, and profit be damned, we never will. Put simply, we just want to make the organic, small batch, artisan bread and pastry we all love in this wonderful community.
Thank you, so very much, for being part of our bakery dream. You mean the world to us.
Two people & a crazy dream.
I don’t know what made me sit down and scroll through old pictures this morning, I guess I was feeling a bit nostalgic. I was thinking about all the items we’ve made, wondering if I had forgotten to bring something great back around (always possible in our ever-changing menu). Then I stumbled on this, and realized it’s been a year.
One year ago we were feverishly putting bread and pastry on our little round table in the foyer. In baskets, under glass domes, and in a few scattered boxes. We were barely filling that foyer table, in one bake a day, and praying someone would come buy a treat. Hoping, so much, that a few people would see our posts and stop by to try a loaf of bread. We had no real baking equipment to speak of, no big ovens or coolers. We were doing our very best to bake in a small residential oven with the two baking sheets we had. Just the two of us, getting up very early every morning, with little but hope.
We had no idea what was to come. No grand plans. We were just so very happy to fill our little table and see a few smiling faces. Then, last May, Mr. Amazing and I looked at each other and realized our foyer wasn’t enough. We were learning, by boot camp method (and huge trial and error), how to bake more. More product, more inspiration and invention, and more efficiency. And, through it all, trying desperately to cling to our promise of truly artisan, small batch bread and pastry. To our every hope, dream, sweat and tear, more and more of your smiling faces walked through that foyer door. So many, that we pushed my great grandmother’s table out of the dining room and Mr. Amazing built wood cases – with more shelves than I could ever imagine filling.
One year later, we’re rotating dozens of baking sheets and peels of bread loaves through big commercial ovens every day. Filling those shelves several times over. And looking at each other, knowing all too well, it’s time to expand again.
Thinking back, I was very proud of our little foyer table. I knew how much love and effort we were putting into every baked good we placed on it, and just wanted to share our passion. I am still proud of every loaf and pastry we put out, but I am even more proud of the two of us. Especially my ever loving, ever supporting husband who has made every step of growth possible. What we’ve learned in the past year feels like it could fill ten novels. It’s been a year of trials, tears, hopes, dreams, growth, triumph, and immense gratitude. In so many ways, it’s easy to lose sight of the growth in the grind. Day after day, not realizing that -just one year ago- it was all we could do to bake a handful of loaves and fill a few baskets. Yes, we may have more gray hair and we are always sleep deprived. However, despite the bags under our eyes, we have never been happier. We have never been more grateful. And we know, it’s just the beginning.
We are working on grand plans, but in our hearts, we will always be two people with crazy hope and a tiny foyer table. Today and every day, thank you for walking through our doors. It truly means the world to us.
Thank you for being part of our bakery dream.
