the magic of small

I was feeling sort of exhausted and down tonight, at 2 AM, packing up Mother’s Day chocolates, Jacob helping me ship them out at the kitchen. We were chatting like we do super late at night, trying to make plans so that our lives aren’t so weird and 2 AM-y. When it’s super late, I always get in this crazy mode where I want to analyze every aspect of my life even though I’m too tired to make any sense, so I just ramble on about things like how the Pyramids mold is ridiculous because it only has 8 cavities and is thin plastic and why won’t any companies make molds with firm dishwasher-safe plastic that have like 20 cavities because really when you start thinking about the time you waste making rinky-dink 8 pyramids at a time it’s ludicrous and not to mention how the chocolate gets in between the cavities and I’d love to learn more about injection molding and commission custom molds but that’s a whole crazy world and—

basically, I am really super irritating.

Tiredness + mind constantly whirring = eye-rolling annoyingness.

So, perhaps to veer my mind away from exhausting drivel, Jacob started asking me about the customers whose packing labels he was putting on boxes.

The conversation went like this:

“Who is this Severed Unicorn Head Superstore person?”

“Oh, that’s M. She lives in Michigan, I think, she’s really cool. She used to run that cool animal charity, and has a really cute rescued greyhound, and once we traded for that brown hoodie I wear about every day. She also used to work at that vegan-run print shop where Juan gets all his merch for his bands printed.”

“Who’s C.O.?”

“She really likes pomegranate truffles.”

“Who’s L.P.?”

“She lives in Connecticut and works at Planned Parenthood. She got truffles for her wedding–I think lemon and orange ones.”

“Who’s J.J.?”

“The wife of some movie producer–they got the meal delivery service for a while, when they were living in New York. She emailed me recently to ask what I thought of LA veggie restaurants. I sent her that email we wrote up for Celeste a while ago with places you like. She went to Madeline’s Cafe and loved it.”

“Oh yeah. Who’s L.J?”

“My client–those are for his mom. He used to work for NPR and donated a ton of money to Kucinich!”

“Ha! Who’s J.P.?”

“She’s that singer-songwriter I’d never heard of until she sort of got obsessed with the truffles and sent them as holiday gifts to everyone at her label and stuff last year, then remember how your cousin adores her and saw her on the beach in Hawaii one year?”

It’s not that I knew the back story of everyone who had ordered in that particular batch, but I knew enough (even if I did find out some of it through FundRace) that my heart swelled with that weird sort of small business owner glee, the kind I get when I’m wrapping up people’s truffles and am tying the bows pretty for no reason other than that it’s fun to open pretty packages—and I suddenly felt calm, and wonderful, and successful, and lucky, lucky, lucky.

And then I told him another cute work story: how a client of mine got super busy and couldn’t get deliveries anymore. She was so busy and traveling that she didn’t have time to arrange for us to come by and pick up the cooler bag with containers and everything (you wouldn’t think I’d deliver in disposables, would you???). It had been maybe a year or so since she’d gotten a delivery, and I had been lax about reminding her about the bag or charging her for it, but yesterday a big box came in the mail from her. Inside was the cooler bag, the containers, a lovely note, three brand new containers (best. present. ever.) and a lolcats magnetic poetry kit!! How did she know I was a lolcat lover??

Magic.

Once a podcaster I listen to was talking about how there’s supposedly some fact about how if you have a tiny business (podcasting, vegan trufflizing), if you find a thousand people who get what you’re doing and support you, you can make a fine living. I’m sure in the food world it’s different because of the tight margins and stuff, but I think about that a lot: how I’m curating my thousand people. That’s why it kills me when someone’s not happy—I don’t want everyone in the world to get my chocolates. I want to create this wonderful little club, where you feel at home, and cared for, and where I can make wonderful things for you that make you gasp with pleasure and satisfaction and excitement.

And it’s happening. Amazing.

Magic.

Now if only I could learn to iron a tablecloth.

2 Responses to “the magic of small”

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