A determined baker rises to the top
Peyton Agliata takes comfort in the laxness of baking in her parents’ kitchen in High Springs. (Photo by Carly Blum)
January 12, 2022 | Story by A.J. Bafer | Photos by Carly Blum and Anderson Bobo
This article is part of Atrium’s Winter 2022 issue. To view the print edition online, visit our Issuu here.
The pretzel rat’s five-year plan shrank to about five months. On the last night of a slimmed-down stint, she scrambled to assemble her mise-en-place.
Peyton Agliata’s workspace was ordered chaos: an open carton of blueberries near the sink, a notebook next to a vat of caramel on the stovetop. After a scone prep session, flour caked her sandals like winter’s first flurry.
Her kitchen warmed with the heat of the oven as she raced to prepare for her first bake sale as an independent business owner. She assembled six dozen fig-goat cheese-thyme, lemon-blueberry and pastrami-cheddar-chive scones for Bushel & Peck’s strenuously selected debut menu. Doubt and panic made for a killer concoction — one she had taste-tested many times in her 24 years.
Agliata’s “Ratatouille” moment — the spark that lit a life of culinary devotion — was not beneath scenic Parisian street lights or even in the kitchen. It rose out of Hoboken.
Agliata’s boyfriend, Boyd Duffie, said her personality is invariably inviting. “She’s always bringing a bright smile to stuff,” he said. (Photo by Carly Blum)
The first time she watched “Cake Boss” Buddy Valastro and his sister Mary Sciarrone sling fondant masterpieces from their New Jersey bake shop on the TLC network, Agliata resolved to shine as a cake decorator. Unlike other tweens with half-baked fantasies of becoming astronauts or presidents, 12-year-old Agliata meant it.
She was, after all, fruit sprung from her father, the chiropractor who uprooted his family from the Northeast in pursuit of a homestead in Alachua County. His original plans of building over a 20-acre plot fell through around the time the housing market crashed in 2008. Still, their farm came to fruition. When Jack Agliata made up his mind to do something, he did. It’s a trait he passed onto his daughter.
Agliata molds a mass of to-be blueberry scones before slicing the dough and putting them in the freezer. (Photo by Carly Blum)
Agliata’s newfound purpose had only intensified by the time she enrolled at Gainesville’s Eastside High School, the school with the nearest culinary program. The hefty two-hour bus commute meant Agliata had to wake up at 5:30 a.m. She fed the chickens and took the transport without complaint for two years. She was a proud farm girl. She woke up before the first rooster crow, drinking raw milk as the status quo.
And, to the tune of her parents’ support, Agliata rose to every challenge on the path to professionalism.
But her dreams of becoming a cake decorator quickly melted before her eyes –– and in her palms.
In her freshman year, Agliata discovered she had warm hands. They were great for working with chocolate but awful for piping with buttercream.
Still, her culinary pursuits would not be so easily spoiled. She was no piping prodigy, but she was electric in the kitchen. At Eastside, she worked hard and entered countless competitions. She held herself to a Michelin-like standard. Desserts like chocolate cake with caramel mousse and pistachios were perfected day after day for half a year at a time.
When self-doubt crept in, or her ADHD opened the door to stray thoughts, she treated herself as she would a friend. She conducted supportive conversations with herself. With them, she kept imposter syndrome at bay, just like her bandanas kept her chocolate curls off her face.
Some of her earliest molding moments came from her participation in Gainesville’s 2014 Iron Chef competition, a localized spin on the popular live cook-off. The first time she competed, her ginger snaps worked wonders on the taste buds of food writer Simon Majumdar, a celebrity judge.
Majumdar raved about her dessert among other professionally prepared alternatives. Dragonfly Sushi’s head chef, to whom Agliata was an apprentice, outed her as the biscuit perfectionist.
“Keep an eye on her,” the judges said. Agliata had never been the center of attention before.
A year later, the gauntlet tasked her to construct a winning, bourbon-based dessert without rehearsal. Practiced or not, her pecan pizzelles with bourbon-raspberry herbed cream, raspberry coulis and salted caramel sauce stood out, their cannoli-like shape a nod to Agliata’s Italian heritage. Majumdar received them even more warmly than her first dessert.
She never went into any competition expecting to win; only to do her best. Before she knew it, she was in deep conversation with one of her role models.
“How’d you get here?” she asked Majumdar.
He replied with an anecdote of his own internal battles. “I was about to jump off a building.”
He explained that on the edge of existence, he caught a delightful whiff. “My neighbor downstairs was cooking Lebanese. I thought maybe I should stick around.”
Majumdar’s vulnerability, kindness and recognition of Agliata’s potential were profound. His words struck deeper than praise from those who had seen her hold her first knife. Along with applause, he offered Agliata advice.
“Show other people their potential. See that in them, like I see that in you.”
If Agliata did not pursue cooking, she would have wanted to be a florist. The elaborate garnishes she designed for this cake sale at Wyatt’s made her realize she could incorporate her passion for plants into her baking. “It’s been so long since I’ve felt this,” she said. (Photo by Anderson Bobo)
More accolades followed Iron Chef. Before long, when Agliata raised her hand to take part in a competition, everyone else put theirs down. They could not compete. Agliata encouraged them regardless.
“Come on, guys!” she said.
When she was a girl, she stood beside the oven at her mother Suzanne’s hip and observed how to cook for many. She relished her mom’s meatloaf and chocolate cake and is insistent, even today, of their efficacy. The exposure was invaluable.
“How do you repay that?” Agliata asked her, long after leaving the nest.
“I was just doing my job,” her mom said.
Even when she graduated high school to make a name for herself, Agliata was no cocky, 18-year-old line cook. Her sights were set on the Culinary Institute of America in New York and, eventually, cooking on a cruise liner.
She had to pay her dues as a student foodie first. But that was not what troubled her most.
“She’s gonna go to New York and never come home,” her father said when she broke the news.
It was the first time in her life when her dad didn’t feel as excited for her as she was. Going against her parents’ wishes felt worse than any botched bake. The day her parents saw her off to culinary school, they drifted back to their car and sat in somber silence.
At the institute, constructive criticism was sometimes substituted with shattered dishware.
“Do this again,” a dissatisfied superior once said, pressing down a plate so hard that it broke in half. “It’s crap.”
And then there were the trash parties. When compost, trash and recyclables were not disposed of separately, a chef might send the overlapping bins tumbling to the floor. Agliata pressed on through flipped tables and wasted ingredients, degradation made digestible only with determination.
She graduated from culinary school in February 2018 and dirtied her mitts as a line cook. After a few months back at Dragonfly Sushi, she was on the tail of a long-held desire. Agliata flew to Seattle and interviewed to be a chef for National Geographic’s Lindblad Expeditions. Her dreams were setting sail.
She spent almost a year feeding the 85-person expedition. On open water, her part had to be played to perfection. The visits from whale pods and serene nautical nights were a plus. She found family in her co-workers; they lived together and held each other’s hair back when dinner was brought back up by seasickness. “All hands on deck” was a constant.
Agliata’s discomfort was shaped by her own self-imposed standards. When her head chef felt her dishes fell flat, she heard her father’s disappointed voice. The sound made her ache. No mistake could float unrectified.
Never settling for the subpar ensured Agliata honed her repertoire by the time she docked for good. Her appetite for improvement still unsatiated, she left the liner to complete a level-one sommelier wine certification.
“The nose knows!” her father said with Italian gusto after she earned her certification, the youngest in her class of 100.
But the sweetness of another notch on her apron was soured soon after.
The months among kitchens after her voyage left stains worse than any trash party. She discovered not every establishment was a work family.
In truth, she felt increasingly uncomfortable. Especially when, instead of hearing “behind you” on a tight path from the kitchen, she felt hands tighten around her waist. Or when a co-worker showed her a nude photograph, unprompted.
People were less apt to stick up for her. They neglected compassion in place of a mantra omnipresent through her climb as a line cook: “If you can’t take the heat, get out of the kitchen.”
Agliata had long taken the heat. But years of not being able to bend over to check the oven without being stared at weighed on her spirit. She was not used to her next steps being so uncertain.
Her job was once threatened over a couple of mini-chocolate chips left on a kitchen surface.
“All of you are replaceable,” she and fellow staff were told in one meeting.
Agliata felt vulnerable at home as well. She found herself in an abusive relationship that left her with post-traumatic stress.
Through it all, she held fast to her go-to motto from high school: she needed to be a friend to herself first. Her conscience offered words of encouragement when no one else could.
Agliata soon found a way to soften trauma’s aftershocks the only way she knew how: with flour.
Sign-making and bag-stamping, what Agliata calls “the plushie stuff,” is completed the night before each bake sale. (Photo by Carly Blum)
When she heard of an opportunity to become head baker at Wyatt’s Coffee, Agliata decided to helm the Gainesville shop’s oven in August 2020.
At home, she began journaling and biking 20 miles a day. And she started baking bread again. Her parents looked forward to a fresh loaf every night. The smiles and satisfied bites of those most dear to her became her hearth.
Agliata hit a creative stride with her renewed vigor. Wyatt’s fed her curiosity and allowed her to experiment on her own. She sharpened her staples with citrusy notes. She took on a from-scratch-down approach. Whether a cinnamon bun or a blueberry scone, she found simple ingredients spoke for themselves.
She took inspiration from the coffee shop’s previous head baker, whose signature bake was pretzels. Agliata’s bread making mastery made pretzels naturally enticing. Hers never lasted long in the pastry case. The café had to establish a weekly pretzel day just to accommodate.
Agliata’s humanity remained as much a trademark as her confections. She would never reveal it herself, but she began preparing breakfast for an unhoused person whom she interacted with outside Wyatt’s every morning.
Her local success sprouted thoughts of a brand of her own. While daydreaming and kneading dough, she listened to a science podcast in the kitchen one day. The episode’s guest shared a story of a street rat the size of a cat bounding through Times Square with a pretzel between its teeth. Agliata salted her spread, doubled over in tears. She had found her new Instagram handle: @thepretzelrat.
Then she found her lifelong partner.
Agliata and Boyd Duffie clicked on Tinder. He was a coding guy. Him and food had never got along.
“Peyton, watch! I’m making the whipped cream,” Duffie said during a baking night together.
“Oh, my God. What are you doing?” she replied.
Their relationship is sweet. And simple. He’s unquestionably supportive. She’s an enveloping light. With renewed security and confidence, Agliata no longer craved cruise liners or wine tastings; just a hole-in-the-wall of her own. Family and mentors alike pushed her to chase the idea.
She would call it Bushel & Peck, after a Doris Day lyric her grandfather sang to her when she was a kid.
I love you, a bushel and a peck.
A bushel and a peck and a hug around the neck.
Bushel & Peck’s pop-ups feature goods baked explicitly for display, along with a medley of decorative gourds. (Photo by Carly Blum)
Her endeavor would begin as a pop-up bakery. Duffie remained more committed than the most dedicated sous chef. He helped her design a logo and played guinea pig to potential menu items. The shop would be their baby.
An opportunity sprouted from 108 Vine, a local plant nursery. It was looking to feature a selection of baked goods to complement its café. Agliata had her chance. Bushel & Peck’s debut was planned down to the last grain of sugar.
Agliata still found herself hustling the night before. But, by morning, a horde of baked goods in brown paper bags – stamped “b&p” in black ink – was ready to be wheeled out.
Agliata was not. She had too much prep to do for Wyatt’s to be there for the first sale. Duffie stood post on his own. Agliata would have to experience the pop-up’s first moments from her phone screen.
Shortly after 9 a.m. on opening day, she got a text from Duffie. Someone had bought nine scones. Not a friend or a family member. A stranger.
When she arrived, at last, Agliata had stared at Bushel and Peck’s pieces so long during prep that she could not appreciate them as anything other than tendrils of the plant nursery. The pop-up’s venue was the perfect garnish; as were the packs of loved ones who showed up for a taste. She traded hugs with friends, excited hand swirls with her father.
“Bye, Dad. Love you,” she blurted as he left, her face a flushed raspberry. She turned to a customer. “He just stormed in here!”
Agliata was only at the sale for 20 minutes before it was time to close up shop. The table was cleared; a decorative, ceramic duck head was the only object remaining on the tapestry. Bushel & Peck had sold out two hours ahead of schedule.
The proof was in the pastries. It would not be Bushel & Peck’s last pop-up. The pretzel rat might have made haste with her bounty, but she’s still hungry for more.
A.J. Bafer
A.J. Bafer is an assistant editor with Atrium. He has previously written for Strike Magazine GNV, WUFT News, Rowdy Magazine and the Independent Florida Alligator. You can find him in the closest cafe.