What Do You Do?
People ask this as if the answer should be simple.
A polite little noun.
Teacher. Chef. Writer. Producer. Consultant.
Something tidy enough to hand over at a dinner table without anyone needing background material.
I usually pause.
Sometimes, trying to be clever, I say, “About what?”
Because I have worked too many jobs to answer cleanly, and I have lived long enough to distrust clean answers anyway.
My first job was at the deli counter at Ralphs grocery store on Poinsettia and Hollywood Boulevard in Hollywood. I was fourteen. I lied on the application and said I was sixteen, which required a forged work release slip from school and a level of confidence I would not necessarily recommend in a child, though it did get me hired.
There I learned how to tare a scale.
This felt very official.
I learned how not to cut myself, which felt more urgent. I learned that customers could be kind, rude, lonely, flirtatious, impatient, cheap, confused, entitled, grateful, or all of the above while asking for half a pound of turkey sliced thin.
I learned that people reveal themselves when food is involved.
Also, I ate a lot of delicious things I probably should not have been eating behind the counter, but childhood crime has its compensations.
After Ralphs came restaurants.
A lot of them.
Short stretches of time, different uniforms, different menus, different ways of learning the same essential truth: most people are hungrier than they admit.
I waited tables. I tended bar. I learned to carry plates, read faces, remember who had the allergy, who wanted attention, who wanted privacy, who was going to complain before they had even unfolded the napkin.
At Carelli’s on the Beach in Keawakapu Beach, Maui, I learned fine dining. Not just the food, though the food mattered. I learned timing. Pacing. The choreography of appearing exactly when needed and disappearing before you became part of someone’s evening. I learned that fine dining depends on invisible labour staying invisible.
At Dollie’s Pizza in Kahana, I tended bar. Different theatre. Different appetites. More noise. More truth. People tell bartenders things they would never tell priests, doctors, or their own mothers. Sometimes they tell you because they trust you. Sometimes because you are trapped behind a counter and cannot politely escape.
Then came Café Med on Sunset Plaza.
Great food. Beautiful room. Beautiful people. The sort of place where everyone wanted to be seen, though not necessarily known. I worked in that world of polished surfaces and private calculations, where a lunch order could contain more social strategy than a political campaign.
Bicé’s Café Med, their family restaurant, was to be my last.
Not because I had become too grand for table service.
Because an enormous oak window took one look at my hands and ended my restaurant career for me.
That injury closed a door I had not meant to close yet. People talk about career changes as if they happen over coffee, with a notebook and a dream board. Sometimes they happen because your body makes an announcement and refuses to negotiate.
Serving tables had been hard work. Brutal work, often. It hurts the feet, the back, the wrists, the temper, the faith in humanity. It also teaches you things no classroom can.
Waiting tables taught me more about life than almost any job I have ever had.
It taught me how to enter a room and know where the trouble was.
It taught me that the person paying the bill is not always the person in charge.
It taught me that generosity and money are not the same thing.
It taught me that some people say thank you as a reflex, and some say it like they understand you have actual feelings.
It taught me recovery. Drop the plate, fix the order, smooth the moment, keep moving.
It taught me that humiliation will not kill you, though it will try.
It taught me that charm is useful, but stamina pays the rent.
And while I was doing all this, I was raising children.
Sometimes with a partner.
Often not.
That sentence holds more than it looks like it holds.
I was working, mothering, driving, cooking, cleaning, worrying, calculating, getting people to school, getting myself to work, making money stretch, making dinners out of what was there, making it look as if I had a plan because children need someone in the room who appears to have read the instructions.
I had not.
Most of us have not.
We improvise and call it parenting later.
I also worked as a producer for companies like 3M and Motorola. I worked on television commercials, indie films, whatever job came next. I learned production, which is another form of service, though with more cables, worse hours, and men with clipboards who mistook proximity for management.
In restaurants, you learn that everyone wants dinner at the same time.
In production, you learn that everyone wants a miracle by Thursday.
Corporate executives do not like to appear nervous on camera, even when they are visibly terrified of their own hands. You learn how to calm people. How to make the impossible feel scheduled. How to make chaos look intentional. How to get the shot, the line, the lunch, the release form, the location, the client approval, the invoice, the edit, the final version nobody will admit they approved three versions ago.
I worked my ass off.
There is no softer way to say that.
I worked while tired. Worked while broke. Worked while raising children. Worked while starting over. Worked when the work was beneath me and when I was grateful to have it. Worked when I knew exactly what I was doing and when I was pretending just enough to get through the door and learn quickly before anyone noticed.
And through all of it, I wrote.
I have been writing actively since my early twenties. Not publicly. Not always well. Not always with confidence. But writing was there, running under everything else.
When you wait tables, you become a student of people.
When you raise children, you become a student of consequence.
When you produce video, you become a student of story, even if the story is about adhesive products, telecom systems, or a man in a suit trying not to blink under studio lights.
When you cook, you become a student of transformation.
When you teach, you become responsible for making that transformation visible to someone else.
Becoming a chef instructor in my forties was not a random pivot. It was a continuation. I had spent years feeding people, reading people, serving people, managing rooms, explaining things, fixing disasters, and making order out of mess.
Teaching food made sense.
Writing made sense too.
Both require attention.
Both require timing.
Both require knowing when to explain and when to shut up.
Both require an understanding that people come hungry for more than the thing on the plate.
Now I am sixty-plus.
People ask me, “What do you do?” and I still pause.
Partly because the world likes a current title. It wants the cleanest, most recent label. It does not want the whole messy archive. It does not want to hear about a fourteen-year-old girl at Ralphs in Hollywood learning to tare a scale under fluorescent lights. It does not want Maui, Sunset Plaza, corporate video, indie films, injuries, children, recipes, invoices, classrooms, grief, reinvention, or the private stubbornness required to keep becoming.
It wants a word.
I have never been one word.
Maybe that is the problem.
Or maybe that is the point.
What do I do?
I pay attention.
I make things.
I teach.
I write.
I feed people, one way or another.
I take everything I learned behind counters, beside tables, on sets, in kitchens, in motherhood, in recovery, in reinvention, and I use it.
After all these years, I am still working the room.