My life as a tax-paying employed person began in middle school, when, for three whole days, I worked in a baking factory.
My best friend Betsy's father was a manager at Hough Bakeries, which, at Easter time, 1 little bunny ( 兔 子 ) cakes for all its 2throughout Cleveland. It happened that the plant downtown needed eight kids for 3 help during our spring break, for which I had no4 beyond listening to my favorite records. I'd 5 minimum wage. I'd see how a factory6. My parents thought all of this was a grand idea and called Betsy's dad with their 7.
Our8in the factory were simple: Place cakes on a moving belt. Attach icing (糖霜) ears. Apply icing eyes and nose.9 bunny from the belt. This was 10 than it sounds.11 a bit and the cakes pile up. As I told my parents at dinner that first night, it was all a little more high-pressure than I'd 12 .
Dad 13. The son of a grocer, he'd spent the summers of his childhood14 food in Benardsville, New Jersey. This was the sort of work that made you15 the dollars you earned and respect those who did the work, he told me.
