There’s a ribbon of warm light at closing time that catches the long harvest table through the window of Treats Bakery in Wiscasset. It calls to mind a Rembrandt painting. I mention this to explain why instead of coming out of the bakery last Friday provisioned with scones and coffees appropriate for a late afternoon snack, I emerged only with a photograph I had taken of a young mother cradling her toddler tenderly at the far end of the table, illuminated by that soft light. The bakery counter had closed while I contemplated the beauty of the moment.

Naturally, I had to go back the next morning to pick up the scones. Which is how I learned that the baby in my portrait was not the first to sleep peacefully at the Treats table while bread was baked, shelves were stocked, the counter was scoured to a shine, the community gathered and dispersed in a comfortable hum that sometimes sounded like a whistle depending on the cast of characters in the kitchen on any given day. Twenty years ago in January, Stacy Linehan opened the doors of the bakery for the first time, her 11-month-old son Sawyer on one hip and a sack of bread flour on the other. At nap time, Sawyer sometimes slept in the bread bowl. Sometimes in the lobster pot. When daughter Kestrel was born, she settled just as easily into the rhythm of the kitchen.

There is a reason they say necessity is the mother of invention. At a crossroad in her career, Stacy had needed the flexibility to spend more time with her growing family. While running an outdoor education program at Bowdoin College, Stacy had felt a pull to baking in the tradition of her father, her grandmother and her great-grandfather, who had sold bread at a bakery in New York City three generations earlier. Stacy had begun a side hustle of making her grandmother’s recipes for scones and cookies, freezing them and selling them to local markets and restaurants. Slowly, an idea took hold like good yeast, and when the old Treats wine store in Wiscasset became available, Stacy took a leap of faith. After all, she had her grandmother’s recipes in her pocket and a bohemian childhood to inspire her.

Her reasoning was solid. If her nana had been able to pick up in the 1940s and move from New York City to become a postmistress upstate — with four kids in tow — Stacy could certainly pull off her dream of creating a place where people could come for simple, straighforward food. Nothing pretentious. A menu that would change daily depending on what was in season. Sometimes a savory recipe that had been handed down to Stacy by her father. Scones and cookies that Stacy had made with her grandmother as a child. Strawberries and rhubarb in spring, apples and plums in October. While the idea unfolded, Stacy started looking for a harvest table.

The daughter of an airline pilot, Stacy’s childhood had been one of adventure. Her family had moved to Saudi Arabia when she was four years old. Every summer, the family would embark to a different country, renting a house sight unseen where they would spend a few months while school was out of session. Arriving in Greece, or Italy, or Spain, Stacy’s father would have the task of figuring out where to buy the best fish, which bakery had the best bread. Off he would go, whistling on the way. Maybe because he had so little time at home between flights, Stacy’s father had the knack of making friends with everyone in the village within a couple of hours after arriving. Stacy’s mother would set about making a home of the rental house, sometimes turning dresser drawers into little beds for her daughters. However minimally furnished the houses, Stacy remembers that there was always a table where meals could be eaten outside. In that way, each summer was set with new neighbors and friends.

Like her grandmother, Stacy’s mother was often on her own with the children during the week while her husband traveled. But she found that there were always other women to keep her company. If there was a language barrier, it seemed that good meals together translated easily into friendship. Stacy remembers those meals — the light on an open terrace, olive vines shading a big table laden with good food, the setting sun. By the end of the evening, the table would be littered with plates and napkins, flickering candles, empty wine glasses. Stacy would struggle to stay awake at the table, lulled by the women’s voices in conversation. Sometimes her sister would crawl up into the chair behind her mother, falling asleep with her arms draped around her mother’s neck.

Stacy found the harvest table for Treats at the shop of a local antiques dealer. At the time, she was told that the table had arrived from an English Rectory. But this feels more likely and Stacy hopes it is true — a customer who stops in regularly swears that he built the table himself. That the table eventually found its home at the bakery, that the baker and the table maker can share a coffee there, that there is room for a whole community to gather around it, that was Stacy’s dream.

At home, Stacy’s family eats most meals around the table that was handed down from her husband’s grandmother. Even after a long day at the bakery, she loves to cook. Stacy is curious and likes to try different things, but she always comes back to making really clean, simple food. “Food to me is one of the beautiful things in life,” Stacy says. At mealtime, she sets the table, lights a candle, pulls flowers from the garden. It’s a ritual for everyone to share a good thing about their day or something challenging about it. When neighbors come over, Stacy pulls up extra chairs and the table makes room for a party.

It has been one of the pleasures for Stacy over the years, the community coming together — electricians and architects, farmers and carpenters who are regulars in the off season sitting down together at the table. Visitors passing through town all summer. In earlier years, Stacy would go about her work, listening for her father to come through the door, whistling a familiar tune. An ease in getting to know people — that’s something Stacy learned from her father.

During the pandemic, the bakery’s sense of community was sustained as customers would pull up outside the shop and the Treats team would fill the trunks of cars and trucks with boxes of farm goods, meats, cheeses, prepared foods, pizza, and coffee. In the kitchen, a mantra developed — use everything. Hold on to veggie ends for soup stock, keep bread ends for bread crumbs, croutons, or Italian strata. Create a bounty from what is on hand. Many weeks the line wrapped all the way down Middle Street around the corner to the Wiscasset docks. There was so much uncertainty in that time, but Stacy was filled with amazement at the sight of so many wonderful people from Portland to Camden who would show up for those weekly boxes.

The screen door swings more freely now with customers returning, and there’s often a line at the counter. In fact, the line is one of the best parts of the experience. In those moments, while waiting to order, there’s a happy, uncomplicated sense of anticipation, a sweet chorus of conversation as regulars ahead of me are greet warmly and newcomers arrive and join the queue. My senses are awakened by the freshly baked treats piled on plates along the shelves of the bakery case. I’m in no rush to leave. With a scone in each hand, more often than not, I settle into a chair at the long, convivial table and linger as long as the light allows.

Stacy’s Sweet Treat

Blend 6 ounces of cream cheese with 2 ounces of sugar, some orange zest, and a teaspoon of vanilla until soft and smooth. Serve in bowls with fresh berries and crushed cookies or graham crackers on top — Stacy recommends Biscoff cookies!