I began working at a family-owned restaurant when I was fourteen, the same one my mom worked at for years. In the beginning, I bussed tables and scraped dirty dishes, the busy work nobody else liked doing. Two years later, I helped fill the void my mother left in the kitchen after she quit. She was tired of being cooped up back there, and she didn’t want to work like that anymore. I don’t mind it, I suppose.

By now, I can tell you the ratio of seasoning-to-flour needed for our fish, or the ingredients needed for a perfect cocktail sauce. My mother taught me to make the clam chowder before her departure, but mine does not compare to hers. I wouldn’t know, though. I don’t like clam chowder and I have never tried hers.

My chowder is prepared and out in the dining room by 4:30pm. Almost an hour into the night, it’s already half gone. Nearing our closing, there’s barely a fourth of it left. By then, I’ve scraped the bowls, and heard second hand compliments from my boss.

I’m told I might need to double the recipe. It keeps going fast every Friday night. No problem for me--all I’d need to do is tweak the recipe ever so slightly. It makes me excited to hear my soup is popular, especially when I’ve never made soup like this.

I continue to work at this restaurant at sixteen, despite the low pay and the conflicts it brings to my other job. I don’t regret it. I get the hands-on experience of being a cook while building some useful skills for my future. It’s also my home away from home, and I don’t want to abandon it just yet.