Confessions of a Reluctant Dumpling Dealer

By Kathryn Peck

Two weeks ago, I had 150 squishy dumplings in my shop.

Today, I have none.

Which is funny, because if you know me — or know Bicycle Pie — you know these dumplings really had no business being here in the first place.

This is a shop built around thoughtful children’s products. Wooden toys with beautiful craftsmanship. Books that become favorites. Toys made from recycled plastic. Paints made from plant-based dyes. Things designed to last longer than the average toy trend.

And then suddenly… dumplings.

Squishy little stress-ball dumplings made from materials that honestly make me cringe a little as a shop owner. They’re not heirloom-quality. They’re not handcrafted. Nobody is passing these down to future generations.

They are, however, apparently the hottest commodity for anyone between the ages of 5 and 95 right now.

The funny thing is, while I spent two weeks slightly horrified by them, I also found myself unexpectedly grateful for them.

Because these dumplings brought people through the door.

Not in the usual “browse quietly and leave” kind of way, either. People came in excited. They asked questions. They laughed. They told me which colors their kids were hoping for. They came back later in the day because one sibling got one and now the other sibling needed one too because apparently peace in the household depends on matching dumplings. (I speak from experience... I had to buy 4.)

And in between all of that, we talked.

Really talked.

Over the last two weeks, I saw so many familiar faces walk through the shop doors. A girl from my old Girl Scout troop stopped in. One of my son’s friends walked to the shop for a dumpling and stayed chatting for twenty minutes. The daughter of an adult volunteer from my son’s Boy Scout troop came in. So did a student from the nursery school class where I used to be an aide years ago.

Grandparents came in searching for dumplings for grandchildren. Parents stopped in after school. Kids pressed their faces against the counter trying to choose “the perfect one,” which, from what I could tell, seemed to be determined by absolutely no logical criteria whatsoever.

And honestly? It was wonderful.

Because somewhere between the restocks, the social media posts, and the tiny squishy chaos, I was reminded of something important:

A small shop in a small town is supposed to feel social.

It’s supposed to be a place where people stop and talk. Where familiar faces keep showing up. Where conversations matter just as much as transactions.

So yes — the dumplings were cheap little trend toys that didn’t exactly align with my carefully curated vision for the shop.

But somehow, they still gave me something incredibly valuable.

Connection.

And as it turns out, that’s worth a whole lot more than a perfect product lineup.

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