No crying in her kitchen: How West Philly pastry chef Emily Wilson is combining community and baked goods

On a recent Sunday morning, Emily Wilson left her West Philadelphia apartment at 5 a.m. for a church in Wayne, Delaware County, where she grew up. She’s there to bake. The church basement, it turns out, has a massive professional-quality kitchen.

A team of one, Wilson moves quickly from speed rack to table to oven, and back again. Her hands fold the dough in silence. She doesn’t use timers anymore, just knows when things are done. She usually finishes about 150 pastries and other baked goods in three hours.

After leaving behind a tray for the church, she fills her car with pastries and heads home.

By 9:45 a.m., ahead of the 10 a.m. start time, 30 people lined the 4600 block of Cedar Avenue, waiting to get their hands on Wilson’s pastries. Wilson stood behind her folding table, laughing, greeting friends and regulars, selling her Em Wilson brand of bakes: danishes, turnovers, cookies, cakes, and “West Philly” pretzels.

Some heard about Wilson’s bake sale through word of mouth, social media, or walking by. They came for a pastry and got even more: The block buzzed with energy and chatter as neighbors greeted each other, friends ran into one another, and a pop-up espresso machine whirred.

Wilson had sold out by 10:30 a.m. That’s standard at her West Philly bake sales these days.

There’s a sense of community around her table, which Wilson describes as a “third space” for her customers — who she says are mostly queer, young families, and, curiously enough, several of the area’s doulas. She doesn’t have a brick-and-mortar storefront, so whenever and wherever she pops up, people come. For some, it’s a ritual.

“There aren’t any rules,” Wilson said. “I’ve set that expectation with my customers. You don’t know where I’m going to be or what I’ll have, but come along for the ride.”

“You don’t know where I’m going to be or what I’ll have, but come along for the ride.”

Wilson’s pastries reflect what she’s learned over her 10-year career in the restaurant industry. Some are inspired by her Italian American roots — like her brown butter orange cardamom pizzelle adapted from her pop-pop’s anise seed version and her “mama’s meatballs” danish, crispy and topped with seasoned ricotta, mini meatballs, red sauce, and pecorino.

Some bakes stay around long enough to become crowd favorites, while others, like her cardamom passion fruit danish and passion fruit custard topped with cardamom cream cheese, are whimsical and temporary. Seasonality is prioritized, like this summer’s peach basil twice-baked croissant.

Wilson’s business was born out of discontent with the restaurant industry. She cut her teeth in highly acclaimed Philadelphia bakeries where she said she was often pushed beyond her limits. She developed carpal tunnel syndrome that knocked her out of work twice in an industry that has not traditionally accepted sick days. Business owners would prioritize their own vision or profits over the people that are supporting them, she said.

Wilson decided to leave her last restaurant job and go it alone. No financial backers, no investors, no loans.

“I don’t need to be busting my existence for somebody else’s vision, where decisions are being made incorrectly,” she said. “I’ll take that power away from someone above me. And I will make all the decisions. If I mess up, it’s on me. If I do well, I reap the benefits.”

She first set up a bake sale in front of her West Philly apartment in August 2023. She sat outside for hours, asking passersby if they wanted a pastry.

One woman asked what Wilson was raising money for. “My rent,” she responded.

As she fed her neighbors, Wilson’s popularity grew.

Now her past experience is influencing her process, goals, and ingredients. She’s determined to not give into increasing demand at the expense of her health or ethics.

“Everybody deserves to have delicious pastries.”

Wilson isn’t interested in opening a storefront or hiring employees. She said that saves her from being forced to make decisions that are ethically compromising. She can’t afford to pay people a living wage or offer health care.

And she’s transparent on social media — a window into her struggles of running a for-profit business as a self-described anticapitalist — where she has shared her yearly financials. This year, she said, she made less than $20 an hour — what is considered a living wage — a total of about $22,000 before taxes.

To keep things affordable, she buys ingredients from Aldi, including butter. Her passion fruit puree is from Target’s frozen section.

“If I’m immersing myself in the community, it has to be a response to the community,” Wilson said. “I’m already a part of gentrification just by being here. Everybody deserves to have delicious pastries.”

Rachel Brandoff, who has lived on Cedar Avenue for about eight years, stood in awe of the treats like brown butter cinnamon “snails” with cream cheese frosting. She told a neighbor she heard the twice-baked pepita croissant filled with pepita frangipane is “life-changing.”

The neighbors have a group chat where they congregate their orders. When one is away, others will make sure they still get their bakes. “Your baked goods nourish us and bring us together,” Brandoff said to Wilson.

Among the neighbors that Sunday was Nathan Winkler-Rhoades, co-owner of Pitruco Pizza. His daughter, Nina, 8, wore an Em Wilson butter T-shirt.

Winkler-Rhoades tasted Wilson’s pretzels as she refined them. They were free at first. He called the final result a novelty.

“They’re irresistible. They’re perfect. She nailed it,” he said.

Wilson’s bake sales have become a jumping off point for other sellers in the pop-up scene. The protocol: Just bring a table.

On that Sunday, Finn Shealy sold his collage artwork alongside Wilson and her table. The clientele is “gay and all in love with each other. And we’re all gonna kiss after we eat a pastry,” Shealy said.

Some were unfortunately left without a pastry that Sunday. Wilson is respecting the limits of her capacity and fighting the urge to produce more.

This is the hardest thing she’s ever done, she said. She’s tired. But so far she hasn’t felt any carpal tunnel symptoms come back.

“I have yet to cry in my own kitchen.”