The Rise (and Fall) of My Boutique Catering Company - PART FIVE
I traveled 3,726 miles to the northern part of the Atlantic Ocean, hoping the power of a rugged remote landscape would give me some clarity. I don’t know what clarity looks like, but if it looks like eating my weight in cinnamon buns and smoked salmon, then washing it down with happy hour bubbly, then I got plenty of it. I ooed, awed, and giggled my way through the ever-changing landscape — the views so stunning I couldn’t believe they were real. The clarity fairies must live here. And I was determined to find them whether it cost me my sanity or some frostbite.
Spoiler: clarity doesn’t live in Iceland.
To my utter surprise, I came back from the Arctic with a fully booked weekend ahead of me. January was always unpredictable (perfect timing for a two-week clarity rendezvous), so when two back-to-back events landed in my inbox less than 48 hours after touching down on American soil, I took them. Grateful to be busy. Also, resentful that I wouldn’t get to ease back into the cold, dark, cozy winter. No time to process, no time for reflection, no time to unpack. I was back to work before the ice had even melted off my boots.
The busy pop subsided, and January went back to its slow platter simmer. I needed something to look forward to, something to generate a little momentum, so I did what any scrappy platter gal would do — I planned a collaboration. My girl Bitters Lab and I cooked up a Valentine's Day Platter Bundle of Joy! AKA a platter for two — heart-shaped brie included — paired with a cocktail kit. Perfect for a date night in, with your boo or your bestie. We advertised early and with vigor.
And then.
Nothing.
Not one single order.
The ordering silence was deafening.
Valentine’s Day had always been reliably busy. Was this a fluke — or was the universe trying to tell me something? (Cough cough clarity cough.)
I thought I had been keeping the battle quiet. Just me and my doubts, fighting it out in private. Apparently the universe had been listening the whole time. It had gotten its clarity. Now it was time for me to get mine.
But I wasn’t ready to face the clarity that I had been so desperately seeking, so I just went to work.
I had been slowly building an online business — knowing it would either become a great asset to Maven Oak or the life raft I threw myself if I decided to burn the platter business down. A controlled consensual burn. Not arson. The Valentine’s Day blackout lit a small fire under that project. It was time to get my booty in gear.
The first project was to create online workshops. Pre-recorded, beautiful, and ready to sell on an evergreen email sales system. But what would the workshops be about?
Platters, of course.
I had been teaching online and in-person platter classes for the past 3.5 years and was ready to document my Maven Oak technique and share it with whoever was dying to uplevel their hosting skills and snacking experience. But one class wouldn’t do. You know me — scrappy planner over here, trying to make everything worth it. For my budget and yours.
The natural second workshop was going to address a pain point I had to clench my butthole and suffer through during every single platter class.
Watching y’all handle a knife is like watching someone perform surgery with a spatula. WTF ARE YOU DOING!
There just wasn’t enough time to get through proper knife technique AND all the fun platter stuff — and my knife skills class was going to solve that. Sharpen up your knife skills and then put them to good use making a beautiful cheese platter. It felt like a no-brainer.
All the while, Maven Oak was still running. I was preparing a new menu for my big summer wholesale client, trying to keep my fall brides happy, and was still playing the part of delivery driver. I had one foot out the door but still pretending I was committed. The universe was definitely picking up what I was throwing down.
My head was down, and I was pouring resources and focus into the new project. When Mother’s Day rolled around — another reliably busy platter day — I got zero orders.
A slap in the face.
How could this have happened? This had never happened before.
Except.
Valentine’s Day.
The universe wasn’t whispering anymore. Here was my clarity.
LOUD AND CLEAR.
Maven Oak was done. I had been checked out for months, and the aftermath of this quiet neglect was glaring at me from my empty calendar. It hit me like a sack of potatoes straight to the face.
Did I will this into existence?
If this was ultimately what I wanted deep down, then why did it sting so bad? The business I had been fighting against had started to surrender. I had won. Or had I? It sure didn’t feel like winning. It felt like I was being pummeled with the potatoes, each one being fired at me relentlessly; there was nowhere to hide. I felt sick.
I said nothing.
I sat with it.
But I knew these would be the final months of Maven Oak. And I was determined to go out with a BANG.
I flipped a switch in my brain and dove back into platters with the creativity and zest I had at the very beginning. I allowed myself to push the budget (just a little) and just played with cheese. I brought back an energy I hadn’t felt in a while and truly enjoyed the last half of Maven Oak’s final year. Wondering why my attitude wasn’t always like this. Everything felt tolerable and, dare I say, ‘easy.’ Maybe because I knew the end was in sight.
I had lots to look forward to. A decent amount of events — the people’s need for cheese just might overpower the universe sometimes — a full summer wholesale schedule, and the launch of the online workshops I had been working so hard on. It was exciting and a little overwhelming.
And what do you do when you are excited and overwhelmed - plan a trip - obviously. I scooted over to Tennessee for some quality BFF time and hot chicken. I needed the comfort that only a 30-year friendship can give you and also a healthy dose of Southern cooking. My BFF flies drones and we filmed the most epic send-off video to announce that Maven Oak was closing during peak fall color season. It was beautiful, stunning, and delicious — because of course we ate it after the shoot, down by the river under a canopy of fall colored trees. The leaves floated down around us with every gentle breeze. It made the top 5 favorite moments of my life.
In another life, she was a filmmaker—a true artist.
Maven Oak floated up and away. For better or worse, I would never be able to look at cheese the same way again.
Cheers,
Nicole | Butter Cult🧈
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