My First Pop-Up Sale: Lessons in Pricing and Production
I still remember the morning of my first farmers market.
It was 2024, and I'd been quietly baking from home for months — testing recipes on my real estate team, feeding friends and family, building my confidence one loaf at a time. But this? This was different.
This was public.
I'd found New Market Farmers Market — a brand-new market in the county that didn't have a baker yet. Perfect timing. No competition. Just me, my products, and a whole lot of nerves.
What I Brought
I loaded up my car with everything I'd been making: breads, muffins, scones, cookies, focaccia, cinnamon rolls. I wanted to offer variety, to give people options, to show what I could do.
Looking back, it was probably too much. I was trying to be everything to everyone because I didn't know yet what would sell.
But in that moment, standing in my kitchen at 9am packing boxes, I just wanted to be prepared.
The Pricing Reality
Here's the part nobody talks about enough: pricing is hard.
I'd been using CakeCost from the beginning to calculate my costs — ingredient prices, packaging, overhead, time. I knew what those numbers had to cover: restocking ingredients, replacing equipment, paying myself a fair wage, and leaving room for growth.
This wasn't a hobby. This wasn't an adult bake sale. This was a business I needed to help my family, and I'm a one-woman show. If I don't pay myself fairly, this doesn't work.
But standing behind that table with a $12 loaf in my hands, knowing people could get store-bought bread for $3? Those numbers felt terrifying.
The reality is: artisan products can't compete with grocery store prices. They shouldn't. The quality, the ingredients, the time — it's not the same product. But convincing yourself that your work is worth what you need to charge? That takes guts.
Occasionally someone will say I'm expensive. And you know what? Compared to grocery store bread, I am. But I'm not selling grocery store bread.
That first day taught me that pricing is as much about confidence as it is about calculation.
What Sold (And What Didn't)
By mid-market, I'd sold out of bread, cookies, muffins, and cinnamon rolls.
The scones and focaccia? Not so much.
I learned something important that day: people come to farmers markets with expectations. They want the things they recognize — loaves of bread, sweet treats, familiar comfort foods. Focaccia was too unfamiliar. Scones felt too fancy.
That didn't mean those products were bad. It just meant I needed to understand my audience better.
The Biggest Lessons
Stop being scared and just do it.
I spent so much time worrying about whether people would like my food, whether I was good enough, whether I'd fail publicly. And you know what? The moment I set up that table and the first customer smiled and bought a loaf, all that fear melted away.
People wanted what I was making. And I would never have known that if I hadn't shown up.
Genuine connection and passion make everything easier.
I thought selling would feel awkward or pushy. But it didn't.
When you care deeply about what you're making — when you can talk about the ingredients, the process, the love that goes into each loaf — people feel that. And they want to support you.
I wasn't selling bread. I was sharing something I believed in. And that made all the difference.
Pay attention to what sells (and what doesn't).
Not everything will resonate with your market. That's okay. Watch what people buy. Listen to what they ask for. Adjust accordingly.
The market will teach you things no amount of planning can predict.
What Surprised Me Most
The other vendors embraced me.
I'd been nervous about stepping into a space where other people had been selling for longer, where I was the new person who didn't know the unspoken rules yet. But the vendors at New Market were kind. Supportive. Encouraging.
The business owner welcomed me warmly. Other vendors stopped by my table to introduce themselves, bought my bread, cheered me on.
After the market ended for the season, I even tried to keep up a delivery to some of them — but they were just too far away to make it sustainable. Still, that sense of community? That was everything.
I realized that day that small business owners root for each other. There's room for all of us.
The Real Win
At the end of that first market day, I packed up my (mostly empty) car, counted my cash, and realized: I'd made money.
Not a lot. But enough to know this could work.
More importantly, I'd proven to myself that I could do this. That people wanted what I was making. That all those months of practice and preparation had been worth it.
I drove home exhausted, exhilarated, and already thinking about the next market.
Looking Back
That first market changed everything for me.
It proved I could do this. It showed me what people wanted. It taught me that pricing fairly isn't greedy — it's necessary. And it reminded me that showing up scared is still showing up.
I don't know what your journey looks like. Maybe you're thinking about your first market, or maybe you're just curious about how this all works. Either way, I'm glad you're here reading this.
This is my story. Not a blueprint, not a how-to — just what happened when I finally stopped overthinking and started doing.
Thanks for being here.
— Courtenay 💙
