Beignets, bagels, and more (pt. 2)

December 9, 2024

It’s been over a year since I wrote this post and sent it via Mailchimp. I’m going through all of my old posts and updating their formatting so they look beautiful on my current site. This is one of a handful of entries that are too darn long for the platform to support, so I’m divvying it up into two. Unfortunately, that means publishing this as a “new” entry. It is, in fact, old!

The first part covers the majority of my New Orleans trip. The second part is the trip’s end, my mom’s bagel shop opening, my struggle to write concisely about myself (lol), and three whole weeks of current fixations. If you want to read the first part, it’s here. Now, back to 2024!

Back up in the morning for departure day. Mara left the evening prior, and Marley left extremely early that morning. Clara and Allie would fly back in the afternoon with Meera, Gabby, and me taking up the rear for 6 p.m.-ish departures. I was up earlier than our crew, so I took advantage of the in-unit washer and dryer.

We expressed interest in museuming for the morning, choosing between the Ogden Museum of Southern Art and the National World War II Museum, which happened to be across the street from each other. Any other version of me would probably choose the art museum, but the World War II museum is apparently massive and beloved. It also doesn’t hurt that a lot of my colleagues report on the military and its history. As cool as I imagine the southern art museum is, I can go to art museums anywhere.

We bid the Airbnb adieu and journeyed to our museums while Clara kindly complained to our host about the lack of Wifi for our whole stay (which really screwed our nonprofit legend friends in an especially busy time of their year). I split from the group and put my belongings away at the WWII museum. I’ve been to a few Holocaust museums, but my World War II museum experience includes the one at Normandy and at an OK one in Caen amongst other horny Jewish teens.

This place was massive, and I only had two hours. I only got through the first building. The first thing you do is wait in a long line amongst truly all ages and types of people to get a keycard that serves as a dog tag. Each tag is a different real person, and there are different checkpoints throughout the museum where you can tap your tag and see what your person was up to. You can also use your tag to collect virtual artifacts, which can all be looked up later through a personalized page for you on their site. It’s one of the most effective ways to keep an experience going outside of its venue that I’ve ever seen — so cool!

I waited in that line for a while. There’s also a photo op, which I refused. The main building goes through so much, the first story showing how the war started, propaganda that kept it moving forward, and what people really thought about all of it. I especially appreciated the larger exhibits on Japanese internment (they had a camp school yearbook open to club photo pages) and how Black Americans fighting for equality abroad only to return to segregation at home helped spark the Civil Rights movement.

I kind of thought this museum would be a big American propaganda jamboree — and maybe someone dumber than me might think it is — but I thought it was incredibly nuanced. The rooms about propaganda and the media played corresponding patriotic tunes of the time, which helps you see how much (and easily) people were coerced into into supporting the war (especially pre-Pearl Harbor). The top floor was silent and all about D-Day, a floor I enjoyed despite not really caring about military strategy.

I was so, so happy to be in this museum. Lots of parts contribute here: it’s an objectively thorough, huge museum; I’m all alone; this stuff is relevant to my job (I even got to see military medals I’ve had to learn about for this website I had to build). As a Jewish person, I’ve always loved learning about World War II, but I also think the war is particularly interesting to most people, especially Americans. Why? Because more than most other wars, we’re taught that this one has a clear good-vs-evil, the good guys win, and we’re the good guys. Do you see similarly sprawling, curated museums in this country for the Vietnam War?

Eventually, it was time to meet back up with my friends, who finished their museum and were getting coffee before Clara and Allie’s departure. I picked up my stuff and walked a few blocks to Mr. Wolf Espresso, only to realize all of the girls kept their luggage and their museum, and I was the chump to now lug mine around for the next few hours. I got a delicious lavender latte and hugged the two goodbye.

Now, it’s just Meera, Gabby, and I. All three of us would fly to Atlanta and split there, Meera to Providence and Gab and me back to the Burgh. We had to go out with a bang, so we got lunch at Cochon, another beloved place (my friends really slayed with their recommendations). They had a sandwich shop and a more formal sit-down spot that we chose despite our sportier attire. We feasted on all of this comfort food I would have not eaten 6 years ago as a semi-Kosher legend: fried alligator, boudin, a rabbit and dumpling stew, and a fried oyster bacon sandwich.

We sat in an empty park nearby for a while debriefing and laughing, a craft Gabby and I have mastered with each other for over a decade. Meera later said one of the funniest, smartest things I’ve heard in a while that would have slayed on Twitter in 2018 as a flip on looking for a needle in a haystack — Turns out the haystack was all needles.

Our final Uber of New Orleans played slow jams the whole way to the airport, and we all almost fell asleep. The sun was setting dramatically as we situated ourselves at our gate. While walking back from the bathroom, I comically slipped in front of a crowd of people on a wet paper towel randomly on the ground to act as my banana peel. I immediately got up in the way I do just saying It didn’t hurt! I’m all good. Don’t worry about me, which was all true. I still looked like a bumbling fool and was one.

I spend the first flight listening to music and podcasts, fascinated by my seat neighbor listening to Josh Groban on an iPod Nano. I relistened to the Isabella Rosselini episode of Julia Louis Dreyfus’s podcast and realized I forgot everything. I didn’t like this episode because although she seems like a great lady, she’s had too charmed of a life to give helpful advice. Up, down. We land in Atlanta, Meera and I at the gate way earlier than Gabby. When she finally appears, she exclaimed, I got to hold a baby!

Meera’s flight was an hour before ours, so we grabbed Chick-fil-A, ate it at her gate, and said goodbye before taking the tram to our gate’s terminal. I already missed Meera even though I would be seeing her in a week. Gab and I flew back to Pittsburgh, another short flight, while I wrote to Leah.

I’d say this trip was a wild success. I got to fall in love with a new city, check pretty much everything off of my bucket list, hang with my besties, get closer to newer friends, and indulge in every instinct. This wasn’t some bachelorette trashbox trip, and I was lucky to be with people who wanted to keep it lower key that a night on Bourbon. I thought New Orleans was a night city, but I had much more fun exploring in the day. I learned more about a region I know little about and felt in control aside from an unfortunate puke and an even more unfortunate public fall. I would love to go again and recommend you go, too.

Flying back, I thought I would be marinating on this trip for days, but the notes I took came in handy because the following week would wipe my brain of anything but bagels.

It rained as we landed, string-thin rain streaks passing on my window. I’ve landed in Pittsburgh countless times, and the orange streetlights are what tell me I’m home. It’s too late for our parents to pick us up from this public transit craphole, so we Uber once again. I still don’t remember my mom’s address and always have to look at old texts.

My mom is the kind of person that would drop anything to help me, and on any other night she would be driving Gab and me home at midnight…but this was the night before Balena Bagels’ soft opening, and she had to be up at 3 a.m. I walked in, gushed over the dog, gave my mom a kiss, wrote a note on her door for the morning, and scheduled a pump-up text for a little later. My plan for that day was to get up as normal, start work at my real job at 9:30, then pop by the shop around lunch to see if she needed anything.

A little over four years ago, my mom decided to separate from my dad after learning he was a completely different person than the one he presented to our family. I wouldn’t know about this until a few weeks later when I’d be home for Christmas in the week between graduating college and starting work in New Hampshire. The night before our parents gave Ben and me the divorce talk, Mom and I were hanging on the couch and gabbing as we always do. She told me she decided she was going to open a bagel shop. I was ecstatic. She said she still hadn’t told my dad, which made sense because he’s an expert at getting worked up very easily.

The bagel shop idea made a lot more sense the following day as I learned about the string of my dad’s horrible decisions that would lead me to kicking him out of the house. I was so beyond angry for myself and my family, and our family dynamic obviously shifted. It felt both upsetting and so, so correct to get out of Pittsburgh almost immediately and barely spend time home since.

My mom has always had an entrepreneurial spirit and was a freelance graphic designer for the majority of my childhood. Once I went to college, she got a job as an elementary school secretary in the district I grew up in. She worked there as of maybe a month ago, clocking in 7 years of wrangling kids, parents, and colleagues. The job was predictable enough that she had time to figure out how to make a bagel shop happen: getting the recipes right, finding a space, and turning it into a business.

As with any small business owner, opening a business isn’t a surface-level career choice. This shop represents my mom’s liberation and freedom from the sleepiness of domesticity, ringing in her independence at an age many women feel invisible during. Even without the turbulence of the past few years, my mom is so kind, smart, and unique — she deserves to do something for herself after living so much of her life for others.

This process has been both fast and slow, constantly doing and learning things but always encountering new roadblocks. I’m just happy to be a listening ear. There have been quite a few times where I’ve felt like it’s about to open and then something happens or we realize something that pushes that date back. I made Instagram and Facebook accounts that I started posting on over the summer, thinking it would only be a few weeks before I’d head home and help out. Electrical work, plumbing woes…I was surprised when my mom said it was finally time. Great that for me that it would coincide with Thanksgiving, right?

I was exhausted from my day of travel, but I woke up around 8 feeling like Christmas morning. It’s just a soft opening with a limited menu, no sandwiches, sweet bagels, or less conventional cream cheeses yet. I responded to social DMs, posted stories, and sent out a newsletter to our subscribers — only to get a text minutes later from my mom saying they just sold out. Oops, now to send a correction.

I could not believe it. Years of hard work and learning…and selling out within two hours on the first day. The pride I had for my mom was overflowing. It’s so awesome to have a tangible piece of success that she can lean on. Her instinct to open a bagel shop in the bagel desert of the South Hills (and very limited options in the city as a whole) proved to be correct. We started getting our first Google and Yelp reviews — all saying good things. Yes, yes, yes!

I still planned on going to the shop, but I didn’t have car access, so I called a more VIP version of Uber — my Nonna. We drove over and walked inside, cheering and hugging my mom and her team that day (which were all people I’ve known for the majority of my life). I was holding back tears. Michele, my mom’s friend since college, took pictures of the three generations. We have a refugee that escaped persecution of Jews in Libya, her first-gen daughter opening a business associated with (Ashkenazi, but whatever) Jews, and her second-gen granddaughter slaying a media job in Brooklyn. Nonna, for some reason, decided to jangle her car keys in front of her in the picture, which Mom and I started scolding her for. We giggled and argued for the next few minutes, trying to illustrate how the keys make no sense for the picture.

My mom and I went home shortly after. I was all smiles, but my mom was grasping her new responsibilities and schedule. The bagels being a hit is a great problem to have, but it’s still something to wrap around. There would be people waiting outside before open every day for the week I was there. I made the mistake of telling her about an angry Instagram DM I got from someone who drove 45 minutes only to arrive when bagels were all sold out.

One of the many chic things about my mom is that she hates social media and has actively avoided it. She made an Instagram for my dog in the past few years and uses that to see food, celebrities, and a few friends. Now, her literal business is out there, and she has to deal with all that comes with it, including the inevitable bad feedback. Instead of focusing on the glowing reviews, I could tell she was fixating on this. She dealt with plenty of unwarranted anger in various in-person roles, but being perceived on social media and knowing that people are talking about her product is a scary thing to adjust to.

I did some work for my real job once we got home and also posted a Reel of bagels going through the roller before they get baked. Amidst a flurry of kind, excited replies, one woman on Facebook angrily commented about our awesome manager Malachi’s gloveless hands being unsanitary and that she’d never come try our food. We know that gloves aren’t required at this step yet, but we PR’d a response that would be clear and reassuring. It was our first public, negative comment and felt really scary. What if people see it and decide not to come? Thankfully, our followers are awesome and came to our defense unprompted. She ended up deleting her comment.

This moment added in some anxiety for me with posting going forward, trying to get ahead of anything that could be picked apart. Obviously, this is the internet and haters gonna hate, but it’s different when it’s your mom’s business. I care too much, and each comment affects me personally. After getting a few great Yelp reviews, we got a really terrible one where someone who spoke Capitalizing Every Word called our bagels Absolutely Horrendous and our staff Young And Useless. In hindsight, this comment is hilarious, but in real time, I was really upset.

Since it’s my newsletter, I’ll process this how I want to, by talking about the things that upset me first, but I could not be happier with the feedback the shop’s gotten. Best bagels in Pittsburgh; As good as bagels in NJ; Best bagels I’ve ever had. What a relief. I believe people would come to the shop even if the bagels were mediocre because it’s filling a market gap, but to know that they’re loved…what a motivator! Talking to customers on Instagram gushing about the food and thanking us for making it…the love fuels me! I did not know we would have such an overwhelming response so fast.

I wanted to celebrate her first day, but she was already twenty steps ahead thinking about how to make the next days even better. We went back to the shop for a bit to do some cleaning before celebrating at our suburb’s Chinese restaurant, Sesame Inn. It was nice to unplug, and I finally got to tell her about my New Orleans trip. We drank tea under fluorescent lights and grew drowsier as we ate.

We went home, got cozy, and fell asleep early because of the incoming 3 a.m. alarm. When the alarm woke me up, I felt ready to get the day going. I had been nervous for this day for a while because I do not have faith in my skills as a food service worker. I was a mediocre frozen yogurt store employee and a kind but stupid hostess in both Pittsburgh and Boston. I didn’t mind letting my bosses down as much because I was a summer interloper. Now, my boss is my mom.

You couldn’t find a more spoiled kid west of the Monongahela River than me. I didn’t really have chores growing up, and I bargained or procrastinated out of them when I did. My mom also let my baby self be as obnoxious as I wished, throwing a tantrum every morning at preschool before the doors closed. Even as a baby, my mom trusted all of my instincts and validated all of my outbursts. She believes that if I was freaking out, it was because that was the only way I could communicate that type of discomfort. Other adults in her life questioned her methods, but she did her own thing. I’m grateful she followed her instincts because I never grew up fearing or hating my mom (and I got the things I wanted — duh!).

This does, however, create a corner-cutter. If I’m faced with a task I don’t like or that intimidates me, I either 1. procrastinate 2. pawn it off or 3. phone it in. I have poor fine motor skills (have you seen my handwriting?) and can be pretty aloof. These attributes are certainly not the ideal bagel shop employee. I have to push all of these instincts aside so I can do a good job for my mom. Even if I try my hardest, will I perform successfully or continue to be a faildaughter?

My mom will probably roll her eyes at my section headline because she vehemently disagrees and thinks I’ve done so many helpful things in her life. Okay…yeah I’ve done some stuff…but not nearly as much as my friends with more transactional, traditional relationships with their moms. I didn’t start getting my family members consistent holiday gifts until like…last year or the year before? My mom has always shown me that she’ll love me no matter what I do, and that creates a kid who doesn’t try too hard. I don’t think I started asking my mom if she needed help around the house until I started dating girls that were way more (read: appropriately) hands-on around the house.

I really wanted to show her that I could excel with the bagels. This is a tangible way I can show her how much I love her (but Syd, you clearly love her so much and also do the shop’s social media!) and do it through doing something unnatural to me (okay yeah, no one’s coming to you for your cooking).

Back to bagels: I wake up slightly groggy but more ready than I thought I’d be for this day. We said goodbye to Bean and set out for the shop, which ends up being my first snow of the year, lightly falling and barely sticking. We park in front of the T station (see, it’s so accessible!) and get in.

We have two hours before the other bagelers arrive and get well on our way through the last day of the bagel’s 3-day bake process. We take the racks out of the massive cooler, put whatever flavor and non-stick ingredients on, and bake the bagels in the oven. I asked a zillion questions. Most of the process was pretty mindless. Malt both sides of these bagels but only one side of these. Make sure the sesame bagels look split down the middle between seed types. Brush rosemary on all sides, and don’t forget the hole. Malt, flip, malt, top, set.

There aren’t enough words to describe how giddy I was. Just my mom and me working with our hands and playing Mary J. Blige Spotify radio before the rest of the world wakes up to receive what we made for them. Four years of scheming and it’s now here. Countless conversations with contractors, architects, plumbers…it’s all here. No matter what happens next, no one can take this away from her — or our family! I am clearly the luckiest around.

The other bagelers arrive, two of whom I’ve played Pokemon with since they were in early elementary school and the other being someone who reached out to my mom for a job a few months prior. We bake, basket, and clean before people arrive. Things still feel great. I’m supposed to be on register that day, and we use Square as our Point of Sale, which seems really intuitive and I feel like I have this in the bag. We said on social media the supply would be as limited as the day before since it takes multiple days to bake and start a new batch, so hopefully people would come accordingly. Time to unlock the door and change the sign from Closed to Open!

I don’t remember much of the next hour and a half. I thought we’d get a steady stream of customers, but it was a tsunami. Some people apparently waited in line for 45 minutes. We had people waiting outside in a line that never fully dissipated. As a person on their first day of work, it was so overwhelming. Taking orders, communicating them with the crew, trying to get it all…I felt crazy and incapable of even looking up from my Square screen. As a daughter of a new small business owner, this was incredible. Second real day open and we sold out in under two hours.  Luckily, Malachi, Chloe, and Michelle were so able and calm.

I wanted to make sure that everyone waiting in line at least got one bagel, so I started putting order limits as our supply dwindled. No more than a half-dozen, no more than three per order…then I capped it at one-per-person in line. A bald, bearded Gen Xer started getting red as he yelled at me, outraged that we weren’t prepared enough for this demand and frustrated by my more leftist approach than first come, first serve. I kept calling him sir and apologizing, saying it’s only our second day open and that we’re learning. The more I sir’d him, the redder he got. His wife, embarrassed, made him leave. I don’t remember if they got bagels or not, but at least they didn’t leave a Yelp review.

My plan worked because the last person in line, a girl I knew from high school orchestra, got the last bagel. It’s the first week, and everyone should be able to try our stuff. As I began to exhale, my mom checked her phone and saw a rightfully stern text from her neighbor: Bean had been barking ever since 4 a.m. when we left the house. I was relieved early to tend to him, who obviously got quiet, sleepy, and not walkative (the walking version of talkative I just made up) as soon as I returned.

I then had an actual day of work and eventually ended up going out to one of the few gay bars in Pittsburgh with my friends, running into an ex-situationship (amicable!) and, later, her ex I’ve never met that stared at me all night. I stayed up for 23 hours this day. I felt slightly successful from my day but also like I could have done way better, physically exhausted yet mentally restless. Pouring over social media. This was also the day we got that Young and Useless review. I felt like an idiot and just wanted to get to the next day and do it better. Now I get why my mom couldn’t conceptualize a celebration dinner.

Ben got home super late, and we both slept into the afternoon of Thanksgiving. Once we were up, we went to the shop to do more baking (setting up some dough for day 1 and rolling bagels for the cooler for day 2), which ended up taking four hours. My mom was up very early that morning and got our Thanksgiving dinner mostly prepped (give her a medal). We picked up Nonna for our fun but smaller than ever Thanksgiving at our apartment. We ditched turkey for chicken this year and had some of our favorite sides, the best of course being a savory Dutch baby. Cozy, sleepy fun.

What a weird and not weird Thanksgiving on a holiday that hasn’t really been relaxing. My mom kept saying she felt bad about this Thanksgiving not being relaxing at all. I actually liked this alternative because every time I go home to Pittsburgh, I become a teenage girl again and fight with everyone including my inner self. If you remember from last year, I had a self-induced lonely, odd holiday and entered a funk I couldn’t get out of until it was warm again. When you’re working and sleeping odd hours, you’re too busy to be sad and weird. It was nice to feel competent instead of like a brooding fool. I drank some prosecco and went to bed early.

Up at 3 again and back at it for Friday. This day felt so much better. I’m getting more into a groove with the bagelmaking and knew what to expect at the register. I felt lighter. I felt myself making real connections with people, taking the energy of New Orleans cashiers and bringing it to Pittsburgh, sans baby and love. It was slightly less crazy than the day prior, so we had some time to breathe and be silly. The crew is fantastic. I was supposed to leave early and work on my real job, but no one needed anything pressing from me, so I just stayed through selling out.

I ended up hitting the tried and true Planet Fitness where I usually see minimum 3 people I know. I felt so powerful, on my feet for 8 hours and hungry for more while snow flurried outside. Desk job makes me more sluggish. I took my time on my workout and got one of those water massages in the black card lounge after, shedding a few tears as I triumphantly listened to “Blue Bayou.” I’m always on the edge of tears at the gym, and this dark massage corner was the perfect place to let it out.

I was only social that gay club night because the schedule and sleepiness prevented me from being fun otherwise. Saturday was my last full day in Pittsburgh with my third and final early bageling, this time with Ben joining us. We had too many people in that day but three of them were undergoing their first shift. I found myself being some sort of a project manager, teaching the new cashier how to use the register while she dealt with that same stress I had day one and relaying orders to others. This day felt a bit less efficient for the whole, but I felt like a bit of a multi-tasking machine. It felt exhilarating. Some of us stayed and got the bagels ready for Sunday, and then I was done with my three days of bageling.

What a princess I am, worn out after three days…but I’d obviously do it again. I had so much fun singing along to my playlists while baking at 4:30 a.m., seeing friends from all ages of my life pull up for food, and getting to see some customers come back on other days. We sold out every day, and it ultimately felt great. It’s a great problem to have, but hopefully we’ll get up to pastries and sandwiches soon. Above all, I actually did feel like I helped my mom, which is priceless!

After work, Mom and I saw Wicked (review below) then got dinner before going to sleep. I had another early wakeup, this time for my bus back to New York. This is my first time taking a bus from Pittsburgh (wow LOL), and when I told people I was taking a bus instead of flying (bought tickets too late and bus was only appropriate price) people were scandalized. It was hilarious. I told my mom that I’d go with her to do two hours of bagels before my bus if her alarm woke me up, but it obviously didn’t.

Since then, I’ve continued pouring over digital stuff. This past week was much chiller, some weekdays not even selling out (weekends though…). In such a hard time for small businesses, I feel lucky that my mom picked the right thing, for at least this moment! Going home has never felt the same since college, then my parents separation, then my mom moving, and now this is the final nail in the coffin. I like that this keeps me busier, though. Again, if you’re in Pittsburgh and haven’t been yet…what are you doing? Try a weekday if you want to go at a human time.

The bus ride took 2 hours longer than it was supposed to and involved us changing to another bus while on the highway shoulder because the original one wouldn’t restart. Meera and I got to Port Authority at the same time and got to celebrate her birthday together at Tonchin, which was a fabulous, fun meal, and great cap on my week. I feel like I have more to say, but I’m tired.

It’s been WEEKS of writing this entry, and I’m starting to resent it. I keep thinking I’ll finish sooner than I do. I haven’t even written the Current Fixations, and we’re already above 13,000 words. I am just incapable of sparing a detail.

I used to be a journalist, and being concise was my job. I know how to tone it down. When I talk about myself, though, I always have to say the most. I think this comes from not having a lot of friends growing up and my mom hanging on every word I spoke. My friends say they like listening to me, but I can’t just tell a short story about myself; it’s gotta be a novella at the very least.

This newsletter started without much direction. Would it grow into something more than it was? Would I do a lot of real research for my entries? Would it be like a foray back into journalism? The answer to all of these is no, and this has become a glorified diary just without sharing complaints or embarrassing anecdotes about my subscribers or their friends. I like it this way, but if this is my life log, I want it to be thorough. Who lives, who dies, who tells your story? I can have as much control as I want. Maybe my extremely online child will stumble upon these entries someday and make fun of them with their friends — or, better, be immediately bored.

If this is my life log, I can’t spare more details than necessary. I’ve got a fast life, and I want to be grateful and reflect on it. Without this, I forget a lot of what’s going on. Whether it’s writing this newsletter or catching up with a friend for a meal, I’ll always tell a long story. I probably just like hearing myself talk. Why else would I work in media?

Whatever! Meera is making dinner and blasting “Scheiße” by Gaga, which I would much rather be enjoying. I’m just gonna shut up now! Oh wait…Current Fixations!