Hair and Cake

That was how it started (hint..read the first post first, starts from the bottom up:)). I was on a big high with the thought of starting and running my own business. The only problem was I didn’t know what I was going to sell. How does a person figure that out? I only knew one thing for sure, and I learned it from the companies I’d worked for in the past. If you’re not authentic, you’re just another company trying to sell stuff. People don’t believe in your stuff if you don’t truly have a connection with what you’re selling. It’s just that simple to me. I had to feel personally connected to what it was that would become the core of my business, and something I loved as much as a family member. This would become my adopted child, and I never wanted to be embarrassed about it in public or have to ask for my money back.

I grew up as the daughter of two Austrian parents. One was a pastry chef, and the other was a beautician. Needless to say, our house was always filled with fantastically fresh baked goods, and my hair was always sporting the latest cut. I was mostly proud of this except for that period in the early 80′s when I had the mullet. Anyway, from as far back as I can remember, I lived in that pastry shop. Frequently on a weekend or summer break, my dad would ask me or one of my sisters if we wanted to get up at the crack of dawn and help him bake the day’s pastries. We’d all jump at the chance to get up at 5 a.m., roll the dough and pull the hot pastries, croissants, and apple strudel out of the oven. I worked in the shop regularly starting at the age of 12 selling pastries and pouring freshly brewed coffee for our customers. And yes, I ate them…a lot of them. I ate pastries and drank coffee with whipped cream on top every day I worked in the shop, and our house was always laced with fresh bread, pastries, and cakes on a never ending rotation. Thank god that I was into sports, or this story might have been about Lizzy’s fat camp.

As you can imagine, this upbringing spoiled me quite a bit when it came to appreciating fresh tasting things. Nothing on the grocery store shelves could even compare to the taste of a just-out-of-the-oven slice of bread or croissant. Family trips to Europe as a child, and later as a teen and young adult solidified my love for the afternoon coffee hour. What’s better than sitting down with a slice of cake and a sweet, creamy espresso at 4 p.m.? Well, I can think of one thing, but this runs a close second.

When I met my future husband at 26, he had just moved back after spending the summer working at a cafe in a ski town in California. He had learned to roast coffee there, and picked up a job on the side roasting and selling coffee for a local company once back in town. We had a supply of his freshly roasted beans on hand at all times, which, in the beginning, I may have loved more than him. After a couple years of work and the company’s failed attempt to launch another location, my husband found himself “downsized” and decided to pursue a corporate career. Good choice. That, however, created a kink in his new wife’s steady fresh coffee supply, and I needed a new place to get my daily espresso.

Enter the popcorn popper.