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Monday, September 20
4:30 a.m.
Some people say love gets them out of bed in the mornings, but for me, it’s dough.
Soft, warm, and pliant in my hands, the bagels I make from scratch and sell in my shop are the reason I do everything, really.
I’m not a morning person by any stretch of the imagination, but I love mornings in the back of my shop before Nashville is fully awake. It’s those undemanding, half-awake hours before the city knows it’s alive and while the sun is still hitting her snooze button that fill my cup and make me believe in building a life you’re proud of.
Monday through Saturday, my alarm goes off at four, and I hop right out of bed. By 4:30 a.m., I’m walking through the front door of my shop with my hair in heatless curlers, those little under-eye patch things clinging to my face, and an oat milk latte I made at home, but forgot to drink, in my hand.
The front window reads The Hole Story in gold lettering, and under it, my quirky little quote painted in small script—Baked fresh. Read often.—beckons breakfast lover and bookworm alike to come inside and stay awhile.
This shop is my baby. My bagel-and-book haven that I built with my own two hands, one overworked brain, and a small financial boost from my father.
It’s mine in a way nothing else in my life ever fully has been.
Between rolling dough, flash boiling to set the crust, carefully putting bagels in the oven, refilling the cream cheese bins, and checking the morning orders, I peel off the eye patches and do my makeup in the reflection of the pastry case while Lana Del Rey plays softly through the shop’s speakers.
The dough proofs in my warming cabinet, and I tap the glass and whisper, “Great job rising, my little gluten queens. Keep it up. I believe in every single one of you.”
Yes, I talk to my bagels. Trust me, words matter. Encourage your plants. Pep talk your carbs. Tell your house she’s beautiful.
And most important of all, don’t forget to say I love you to the people who matter most.
“I’ll be back to check on you in a few!” I call over my shoulder as I head out of the kitchen and into the main area of the shop.
The Hole Story is located on West End Avenue in Nashville. I picked this spot intentionally because it’s close enough to Vanderbilt to catch the caffeine-deprived college crowd but far enough from downtown to keep things calm and void of debauchery.
The rainbow bagel is our runaway hit, with the Everything-You-Love bagel right behind it.
And the books, well, they’re my personal love language.
Every shelf at the front of the store is lined with romance novels—Emily Henry for the flirts, Abby Jimenez for the lovers, Colleen Hoover for the emotionally brave, Nora Roberts for the believers, and Rebecca Yarros for the fearless.
The space is bright and vibrant with bold pops of color, and the exposed brick walls give it a little mood.
I sigh.
Did I mention I love my little shop? Because I really, really do.
By six thirty, I’m deep in prep mode when my two employees, Sunnie and Cher, stroll in. Yes, those are really their names, and no, they can’t harmonize. They can’t even really clap on beat, but they’re always loud and boisterous the moment they step foot through the front door, and we spend the next thirty minutes laughing and running around like wild women until we flip on the neon pink Open sign at the front window.
By seven, we’re in full swing. Bagels are flying, coffee cups are clinking, and I’m silently wondering how I ever lived a life that didn’t start with this kind of beautiful, buzzing madness.
When the clock strikes nine, we’re deep into our morning rush, and customers are hitting us with their carb and coffee requests faster than we can keep up.
“Teeny, we need more rainbow bagels!” Sunnie shouts, bursting through the kitchen door with her hair half up. “And we’ve officially sold out of oat milk before lunch. How is that physically possible?”
“Because you added the oat milk caramel dreamsicle latte to the menu,” I say, sprinkling sesame seeds over the Everything-You-Love bagels. “They’re basically crack cocaine in a to-go cup.”
“Yeah, but the people love them,” she says, grinning.
“Correction,” Cher says, leaning on the counter with a dish towel draped over one shoulder. “You’ve gotten our customers addicted to them.”
Sunnie just shrugs. “Well, excuse me for being a barista genius.”
Cher points an index finger in her direction. “Girl, take the dreamsicle latte off the damn menu.”
