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CHAPTER 1
The Story
In 2009 I went through a divorce. Like anyone who's gone through it knows, it can leave you ravaged and exhausted. I felt hollow. I was living in my parents' attic, as I'd taken refuge there once I realized my marriage was beyond repair. I didn't explain and didn't know how to explain anything to my six-year-old daughter at the time. I said, "We're just going to sleep at your grandparents' house — forever!" We stayed in their unheated attic room for ten months. I remember feeling a complicated mix of relief and freedom, and then despair (for my daughter's sake) and guilt. I was happy to be on my own but consumed with angst that she would now be from a broken home. Because both my ex-husband and I came from divorce (my parents were divorced, but roommates at the time we lived in their attic), we always said our child would never be the product of a broken home. Then it broke.
I drifted in the attic life for months. It was cold and I kept it messy, as my head was really unclear. At one point my mom was beside herself. She'd had it with my drifting. She sat me down and said, "You need to get a life."
I said, "I know. I'm trying." The only thing I could really think about was soothing the pain. I wanted to go out, drink wine, and find a boyfriend. I really wanted to distract myself and not think about the confusion my daughter was going through. I couldn't bear it. The confusion was due to her being forced to go back and forth between her dad and me and our weird, temporary living situations (he was renting a room at an acquaintance's house, and I was in the attic). So she was in purgatory. And I still didn't explain much to her; I didn't have the words. We shuffled her around, as I tried to make some money while surviving the attic. And when she was with her dad, I'd go on dates. Then I met someone.
While we were living in the attic, I got a job at a wine bar. It was dreamy to me because I love wine bars, and the owner was someone who had caught my eye in town years prior. He was opening a tiny, hole-in-the-wall, Italian wine bar that grabbed my attention because to me anything involving wine and socializing was appealing. The place had an all-Italian wine theme, so I knew it would provide a good dose of soul that I needed. He styled the place in a very artful and creative way that was cool. I knew I wanted to spend time there. And I needed to make money.
It took about three weeks before we were dating. He was very intriguing to me, with tons of ambition and good taste. He'd built the wine bar, and it was perfect and tasteful and quirky. I ran the twenty-seat place like it was my home. I loved it. It was a source of easy and fun money.
I went into work three nights a week, and I was always jittery about seeing him. After nine years of marriage, I liked the butterflies of a new relationship. He was quick to ask me over after work for a ridiculously good bottle of wine and something outrageously delicious that he was cooking up. My marriage hadn't ever been focused on pleasure so much; we'd focused mostly on practical things — renovating our house, saving money, and not going out to dinner. I, being someone with a very needy soul, was starving for pleasure, good food, and good wine, and I didn't realize how deep the deficit was until I was out of it. Now suddenly, I was exposed to someone (my wine bar boss) saying, "Here, have this amazing glass of wine, and let's go out for three-hundred-dollar dinner after." My heart, stomach, and entire being were rejoicing to have met this person who gave me permission and encouragement to indulge. I was the perfect candidate; I was dying for it.
Throughout this relationship with my boss, we did some traveling. For some reason, my main mission on several of our trips became to find a good local donut shop. It was a bit of an obsession, and it makes sense now, as it correlated perfectly with the new "permission" I had to eat whatever the hell I wanted with him. I had been a food restrictor for a long time, hyperaware of eating the wrong things and afraid of gaining weight. I had always loved donuts but hadn't eaten them for a long time.
We found a couple good donut shops in Boston and San Francisco, but nothing that satisfied my requirements for a donut that was good quality and totally hit the pleasure button. I found an old-school place in Boston that had tasty but not great quality donuts. I liked an "organic donut" in San Francisco that excited me because I thought it was sort of healthier. It triggered a lightbulb — ooh, quality donuts. Cool concept! And I enjoyed a few, but they weren't exceptionally scrumptious. I also found some packaged donuts in health food stores that were labeled organic or gluten free. They were definitely edible and satisfying, but they were frozen or packaged. The thought, though, was born to combine good ingredients and good donuts in one. Then people like me, who are neurotic but love and need donuts and flavor, could have their donut needs met.
A few months later we were sitting at a restaurant eating an indulgent dinner and probably on our second bottle of wine, and he said, "You should open a donut shop."
It was a radical concept at that moment. It resonated with me deeply, I took it in for about three seconds and got a yes in my core. Yes, that needed to happen. No, I had no idea how to do anything related to starting a business, but I knew I wanted a donut shop. In that moment I saw it. I felt like I could stop floundering in life; I just needed to make donuts. It excited me head to toe. I needed it for myself, and I could see instantaneously that the world — my town — needed a donut shop. And it wasn't because Portland, Maine, needed more food options. We had plenty. We needed something we didn't have — that old-school, nostalgic comfort of simpler times ... the smell of deep-fried donuts and cinnamon, and the way you feel when you walk into a donut shop and get excited and hyped for something sweet and soothing. This is a feeling you don't get from a bakery with bread and croissants (although I love bakeries in general). There's an anticipation with donuts that I love — the fat! It's deeply satisfying. I don't want a muffin! I wanted fat ... dough deep fried ... perfectly sweet ... a little crispy, and soft on the inside ... the right amount of cinnamon. It had to happen! I needed it. I knew other people needed it.
He suggested I open a shop, and my gears started turning. I started the next day. I was all in.
I went to a bookstore and wrote down every recipe I could find. I didn't want to buy cookbooks; I just wanted to jot down some recipes and go home and attempt to make donuts. I gathered recipes, some with sour cream, some with potatoes, some with yeast. I had the basics at home already — flour, eggs, sugar, salt, and baking powder. I had to get buttermilk, vanilla, and powdered sugar. The research and development phase was cheap and low-commitment, which is what I wanted. I didn't want to spend money on this fantasy. Yet.
I practiced and fumbled through several recipes. I made lots of duds for a couple weeks. I brought samples into his bar, where I still worked. I shared the samples with crazed enthusiasm despite the fact that they were only mediocre. I was charged at the thought of homemade donuts. But the sour cream donuts were boring. The other recipes were dry. Then I made a recipe from The Joy of Cooking (Irma Rombauer, Marion Rombauer Becker & Ethan Becker) cookbook: potato donuts with no yeast. They were stellar. I loved the texture ... soft and pillowy ... kind of the like fried dough I got at the fair as a kid ... nice and satisfying but not greasy ... the perfect nuance of nutmeg and a crispy edge. I called my neighbor Zeile and my dad and said, "Come over. You need to try this." I tossed the little babies in powdered sugar and cinnamon and felt like I had hit on donut magic.
I made them a couple more days and then thought, I need to get these out there into the world. The dream of the donut shop (someday) was hanging in the air, and I knew some market testing was necessary. I took a plate of donuts to my local coffee shop and said, "Please eat these." And "Will you sell them?" She said, "Sure!"
I was nervous! I felt like this donut thing was my mission in life, and I wanted to execute it properly. That said, I executed my business in a very casual, unconventional way. I took a plate of homemade donuts to a local shop. I knew no other way to launch a business. I rarely plan ahead — I just leap. I knew I wanted a product that I loved, which was the case. I loved these donuts. I had no business plan or real clue on how to sell a product to "real businesses" in the community, but I decided to wing it and let the donuts speak for themselves. I just wanted people to get them in their mouths ...
I was making twelve donuts a day in a pot on my stove. I hiked down the hill daily to deliver to the one coffee shop. I would be so nervous every time I delivered. Are the donuts cooked through? (I was making them in a pot with a thermometer, and the temperature went all over the place ... 375 degrees one minute, then way up or down the next minute. It was hard to control the oil on the stove.) Will people buy them today? Do people think I'm ridiculous for now being the "donut delivery girl"? Can I really do this every day? Is five dollars a dozen per day worth my while to get out of bed at 5 a.m., seven days a week?
Then I brought them everywhere, and the wholesale business grew. I still was going on complete razor focus. I never questioned the mission. I felt fully that making donuts was my mission in life. With most creative projects in the history of my life, I would lose steam and inspiration after that initial crazed excitement about something. With donuts, the energy never waned. I wanted to bring donuts to the people come hell or high water. It was a relentless drive.
The wholesale business grew, and I quickly secured about eight more cafes that agreed to sell my donuts. I was soon renting a kitchen space in my friend's restaurant at 5 a.m. every morning. He served just dinner, so the unoccupied kitchen space was perfect for me to rent in the mornings. I was able to work in a real kitchen so I was certified to sell publicly.
I was selling a few dozen dozens per week. Whole Foods agreed to sell them, as did our local coffee roaster, who had five locations, so I felt legitimate in my endeavors. Each place (except Whole Foods) was selling only one dozen each per day ... so it was a lot of running around. But I felt great and validated that people wanted the product and were buying them every day. I graduated to a small countertop fryer, making four donuts at a time, and the fryer had temperature control and a timer, so I felt like a real pro! I still was making them four at a time, so when my wholesale orders grew to ten dozen a day and then more, it was taking me hours to cut, shape, and fry them all. Admittedly, it was a horribly inefficient and amateurish way to make them for a wholesale business, but I didn't know better and didn't have the ability or space to buy a big fryer. I made them in this small-scale way for ten months. The wholesale operation grew in this rented kitchen space to one hundred dozen per week. I eventually bought a second small fryer, so I doubled my capacity to making eight donuts at a time. In retrospect, I can smile at my commitment to producing the product seven days a week, even if it was in the most glacial, inefficient, and exhausting way possible. Hindsight is always 20/20.
Four months into the ten months of wholesale-only business, my dad told me he'd be there at 6 a.m. the next day to help me. He said, "You have a business on your hands, and you can't afford to pay anyone."
I said, "Okay." But I didn't want help. I liked working alone, and I had just gone through a divorce and wanted to control the whole situation. I didn't want a man telling me I couldn't do something on my own, and I wanted to do it alone. I was finding my feet in my life. I also didn't want to talk to anyone at 6 a.m. But he showed up. And he ran around the kitchen doing anything I needed and fumbled through cutting donuts and shaping them and handing me trays to fry eight at a time. I fried feverishly because it was a slow process and I wanted to get all these dozens out to the coffee shops by 7 a.m., at opening time. I always felt tons of anxiety about getting it all done by 7 a.m. I was a ball of nerves about "doing it all right." My dad would grab all the bins of donuts, each labeled for each shop around town. He'd always be so chipper and positive! And I was an emotional wreck every day. I fried them as fast as I could, and he'd load up the car and speed around town. Then he'd come back for any that I couldn't get ready by 7 a.m.
I remember being such a bitch. I took it very seriously that my product was "public," and I wanted everything to be perfect every day. Usually, the last people we can hide emotions from are our parents. I was nervous and anxious and I was often overbearing with my dad, but he took it in stride. He delivered the donuts every single day and never reacted to my insanity. He became my right-hand man, and he was fully on board to help me open a shop of my own when we were ready. He was committed to helping me because that's what good dads do. They support their kids.
In fall 2011 we started to think about getting out of the rented kitchen space and looking for commercial space to open the shop. A realtor gave us the tour around town of available spaces. One came up that initially felt totally wrong ... then something about it felt right. It was quirky and out of the way of any other shops. It was a stand-alone building that suddenly struck me as the perfect place for a neighborhood donut shop. Off the beaten path, it was an old asymmetrical building that used to be a garage. It had all the character we needed, as well as a walk-in cooler and a ventilation system we required. We signed the lease.
My mom loaned us a little money when banks wouldn't give us the time of day.
We had no idea what we were doing; we'd never run a bakery. I had no business experience. We threw the place together. I did all the painting, and my dad built the service counter by taking apart the existing one and restructuring it. I had no idea what I was in for.
We opened in March 2012. We had a steady trickle of customers for the first couple weeks. Then the local newspaper wrote about us, and the people lined up. I was flipping donuts on day 12 of our being open, and the line was out the door. My dad was shaping donuts next to me to put on the screen for me to lower into the oil, and I said, "Don't turn around." The line of people terrified me. I couldn't make donuts fast enough. My anxiety was full-blown from this point on. I wanted the product to be perfect, but that was hard to achieve with our lack of experience in making a handmade product at such high volume. A line out the door meant people had high expectations ... and I was the only donut maker at this point. I was on autopilot: Wake up in the morning, cut the dough, fry it, glaze it, sell it, clean up, make dough for the next day, buy more ingredients. Make enough for the masses. Figure out how to run a business. Figure out how to work with my father every day. Do it seven days a week. Keep it going. There was no turning back.
I called my old wine bar boss this first really busy weekend that second or third week. I said, "I made 1000 donuts today. And it wasn't enough. I couldn't keep up, and I don't know what I'm doing. It's overwhelming."
He said, "You'd better figure it out. You're going to piss off your customers." I was terrified and charged. I knew he was right. I had to figure it out. It took a few years past that point for me to really understand how to meet demand ... but it did happen.
A year and a half later my brother-in-law, Jeff, jumped in. He quit his job and put all his cards (so to speak) on the donut business. He said, "We can make this into a multimillion-dollar business." I said okay. I was clueless. I was just trying to keep the routine going every day. He saw something that I didn't, and we decided to open a second location. Another commercial space was secured, and we went for it. This was our second opening with minimal funding. We pulled it together, friends painted, we gathered equipment, and it seemed reasonable to open another location across town given the success of the first location. We were naïve in so many ways, but the momentum of the business was powerful. The second location was expensive, but the customers showed up. It was a great move.
We rolled along for two years, making these two shops work. We increased profitability, and my brother-in-law brought tons of structure and order to the business that my dad and I never had. My dad and I went full steam every day attending to the many more practical details the business required: making and selling donuts ... hiring people ... cleaning the place ... running around buying supplies ... fixing equipment. Jeff helped organize the business from another angle. He saw it from above. He saw the bigger picture. He looked at the finances (not my strong point). He got rid of people who didn't fit with us anymore, and he found the right people to manage effectively. And thank God, he brought a perspective that helped the business be ready for the next level of expansion.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Women Who Need Donuts"
by .
Copyright © 2018 Leigh Kellis.
Excerpted by permission of Balboa Press.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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