This week I've seen more families than ever.  Reunions.  From Alabama, from Massachusetts and New Hamshire.  They come in groups and clump around the picnic tables while I make their breakfasts.  Then three hours later I cook them lunch.  I've come to learn who's on what diet.  The new mom who can't have dairy.  The fifty year old man who orders with his wife beside him. He tells me "no meat," which is our code for "load that burrito up with sausage, ham AND bacon."  I've learned who to save the biggest blueberry muffins for and who can singlehandley drink a 12-cup pot of coffee. 

Yesterday, I was rushing through half a dozen orders, trying to keep my patrons from waiting too long.  Glancing up, I was surprised to find one of our picnic tables filled with people.  Not one family, but three families.  A couple from Massachusetts, looking refined and a bit out of place at the octogon-shaped wood table.  A pair from New York, rough around the edges with their thick accents and plastic party cups.  A local woman who was grabbing a bite before starting a long shift at a nearby beverage-mart.  All of these strangers and they were talking.  Laughing,even.  Like this was their own family reunion.  And it felt really good to be part of bringing people together. 

This morning I watched another family  say goodbye; some of them leaving some staying for another night.  They kissed and hugged and well-wished for ten minutes and I wanted to join in.  People who I've known for four days. 

Maybe this is what it means to be in the food industry.  Maybe the long hours and seven day work weeks (without pay) are the cost for this opportunity.  Not to get rich quick.  Not to win some sort of contest.  But to watch people gather around a table.  To serve them food that you believe in.  And in doing so, to be part of the family.  Part of a hundred different families.  Every week.