First Job

My previous post hinted at some "firsts". One first I left out is one's first job. People rarely forget their first job, although it might be a more onerous, later job that better sticks in their minds. Technically my first job was in a school supply stockroom, with a friend of the family, for a couple weeks the summer before my freshman year of high school. We collated papers, used a shrink wrap machine to bundle colorful construction paper, ate at Johnnie's, and returned to my friend's house every day to go swimming in the pool. And I got a paycheck!

The next summer I was to obtain a not-so-cushy job, yet one that would serve me until I went away to college. Friends of the family (it's always about connections!) owned a Baskin Robbins franchise and my mom helped me draw up a resume and references. One afternoon in June I showed up, met Betsy, the manager and the rest was history. I learned to count change (it's unlikely any Zandrea! reader can recall the last time a clerk counted change back to you, but this is a skill I learned and still have), watched videos on the different types of ice cream desserts which could be prepared, learned not to let "unappetizing ice crystals" form on the top to the buckets of ice cream, and learned the proper way to scoop and weigh (for each scoop must not be over a certain weight-- money doesn't grow on trees, you know!). I was given a pink polyester polo shirt, was shown how to prepare and make waffle cones, clown cones and, eventually, make and decorate ice cream cakes.
An article in this weekend's New York Times reminded me of all this. While we weren't allowed all the ice cream we could eat, boxes of taster spoons lent themselves to near constant "quality control". If someone asked how was the chocolate mousse royale, it was my professional responsibility to give an honest answer, correct? My co-workers and I suffered burned fingers from the waffle cones, and the lingering smell of ice-cream, waffle cones and disinfectant (the store was mopped top to bottom each evening). We learned to read customers and could predict within three ice cream flavors what anyone would order. We raced to prepare treats for the regulars; a junior scoop of jamoca in a regular sized cup for elderly Bea, a jamoca shake for Jamoca Jim. When the phone rings, I still want to answer, "Baskin Robbins Normandy" and for years after I left, I hated to wear anything pink.
I don't eat a lot of ice cream now. But the refreshing taste of daquiri ice still sends me immediately back to high school.