Reflections on my beloved neighborhood bakery
Words by Cheryl Day | Photos by Angie Mosier
October ??, 2024
I realized early on in life that food is a secret ingredient that brings folks together — often a bridge that unites us. Flaky biscuits, buttery pound cakes, seasonal fruit pies, church cakes, and a nod to my family legacy — those delicately tinted pink cupcakes just like my grandmother made — were the vehicle that charmed folks into our neighborhood bake shop. Add a big pinch of nostalgic comfort, and before you know it, you’ve become an ambassador of change for the community.
For more than two decades, that was Back in the Day Bakery in Savannah, Georgia. We set a colorful table and saved a seat for everyone to gather.
I remember the first time we came to look at the corner of 40th and Bull streets in the Starland District in 2001. Folks said the neighborhood was abandoned, rough around the edges, and “very dark” — and we knew what that meant. Our building was a jewel; I felt the vibrant history lingering in the air, and saw the potential on that corner where our future would come to life.
My husband, Griff, and I turned the key at 2401 Bull St. every day, rising long before the sun came up and leaving with our flour-covered aprons long after it set. We were two self-taught entrepreneurs dedicated to baking from scratch while building up the people around us along the way.
Legend has it that my first complete sentence was “Are you having a good time?” and I was born with a superpower for connecting people and spreading love. I always told my front-of-house team to be kind to everyone walking through our doors, reminding them that you never know what someone is going through in life. We gave people a space to forget about their most difficult moments. I hoped that no matter what kind of day they were having, folks would feel uplifted just walking through our doors. It became apparent that we were selling much more than baked goods. We were selling happiness.
We saw people at their highest and at their lowest. They came to mark birthdays, weddings, graduations, anniversaries, funerals. Once someone included us in their obituary, stating that every Friday was special because of us. That touched our hearts beyond words. They came when they lost friends, pets, presidential elections; they came when they didn’t know where else to go.
When we decided that it was time for us to close our doors and reimagine our lives, announcing that our final service would be Valentine’s Day 2024, my inbox was flooded with folks who said they were coming to bid us farewell. Food writers were penning articles that profoundly touched us, saying we had influenced the universe at large and day-to-day moments — a zeitgeist.
From the very first days, our neighbors supported us. They came with high praise, saying our food reminded them of what their grandmothers used to make. We were so grateful to our neighbors for their support, but it wasn’t enough to make ends meet.
Our primary goal was to establish ourselves as a food destination, drawing visitors from beyond the neighborhood — and eventually, they came. We began to build a base of regular customers who appreciated the quality of our baked goods. Some visited to savor our food, others out of curiosity, and, true to Southern tradition, some came to find out who my daddy was.
These days folks call us pioneers and visionaries, but when we sought loans to help open the doors, no one would loan us a dime — we had zero investors. We just had a few credit cards, a cashed-out 401(k), and a clear vision of what our scrappy corner could become. We were willing to put in the sweat equity to make it happen. We built our business on passion, and there were moments that put our dreams to the test. We learned so many life lessons between those pastel-tinted walls.
A few years after we opened, my sister Natalie passed away suddenly. With her infectious laugh and welcoming smile, she had been the face of the bakery. We were devastated. We didn’t know if we wanted to remain open or stay in Savannah. She had been the glue that held us together. But when so many of our customers showed up for her homegoing memorial service in the garden behind the bakery, it was clear that we would stay and do our very best. As if an angel were watching over us, doors began to open for us. A book deal, television shows, and tour buses came calling. It turns out that bakeries are the best places to create sweet memories with family and friends.
Photo by angie Mosier
Long before complex Instagram marketing strategies came to be, we created our narrative; our bakery told our story. Everything from the food we made, to the hospitality, to the experience we created was important to us. We believed the biscuits my grandmother made deserved to be celebrated and were just as important as buying a croissant when visiting Paris — and that brings me to Hannah Queen.
Baking is in my DNA — etched into my genes and passed down. It has become my life’s work to educate and remind folks about the origins of Southern baking. In my family, recipes were shared through oral accounts and passed down from generation to generation much like some families pass on their treasured heirlooms. When Southern cookbooks first came into print, the recipes were written by white women who took credit for the creations of their Black cooks.
I’ve often said that unraveling these details can only be described as a delicate dance on eggshells. It makes folks uncomfortable with the realities of our complicated past. When we opened Back in the Day, I wanted to reclaim these recipes and give them the place of honor they deserved.
My great-grandmother Hannah Queen is my first documented relative on this soil. She was born sometime around 1838, enslaved in the United States of America, and lived on the Grubbs plantation in Alabama. For me, she was much more than a tally mark on a census page listed as a house servant. Whenever her name was mentioned, folks would boast on and on about how she was the best cook across the county. Her biscuits, cakes, and pies are legendary. She spent most of her life working in other folks’ kitchens. Later in life, she had her own family and eventually owned a catering business and a general store. This is where my story in the American South begins.
I am Hannah Queen’s legacy. Her influence can be felt in everything I have ever done and ever will do in my lifetime.
After 22 years in business, Griff and I locked the doors one final time. With several months of reflection and many mornings of sleeping in late under our belt, I’ve had time to ponder the impact of our little American bakery.
We survived two recessions, a global pandemic, social injustice, and family loss, and shared struggles with our neighbors. Living the dream of creating the kind of food landmark that would take root and become a beloved part of daily life is all that we could aspire to achieve. We did that.
Those last few weeks hit me hard. So many folks returned to share their feelings with me one last time. They came bearing cards and thoughtful gifts and many tears. I was overwhelmed with emotions — Griff and I felt blessed with what we had created.
I always say bakers are the sweetest folks on earth. We have a special bond with one another. Many of my sister bakers came to help make those last few days feel special. Their love got us over the finish line. They left their businesses and traveled from all over the country — Los Angeles, Portland, Detroit, Jacksonville — and we baked together while laughing, crying, and making great memories together.
So why did folks feel so compelled to book a flight, jump in the car, or wait in a long line to say thank you and goodbye to their favorite neighborhood bakery? Several folks shared that it was their happy place and hoped it would always be there for them. Comfort came packaged as a slice of cake, or a biscuit sandwich with a spark of joy. We gave them just enough support to get through the tough days or celebrate the best days, and we were there — like coming home.
It was an honor to be a part of people’s lives in such a significant way. We need more places to find comfort, compassion, and joy. Daily life feels fragile and uncertain with so many liberties being stripped from our lives, and we need human connection more than ever. I won’t stop connecting with folks just because we’ve closed our doors. I am excited to find new ways to find fellowship and nurture my community. We need to be able to have more open conversations with folks outside of our own homes to see how we can make the world a safer and kinder place. I believe that Hannah Queen would be proud of who I’ve become. ◊
