“You’re Just a Baker,” My Sister Screamed—The Next Time They Heard My Name, It Was on a Tokyo Flagship

and forced myself to move. “Yeah. We’re good.”

But I wasn’t good. Not even close.

My name is Abigail, I’m thirty-one, and I’m a pastry chef. By most measurements, I’m successful—The Gilded Crumb has lines around the block most weekends and a waiting list for my signature midnight cronuts that stretches three months long. Food bloggers write sonnets about continue reading …