I’M a first-generation American. My father was born in Poland and changed his last name when he came to this country. My mother’s family was from Sweden. My family owned two bakeries, and my siblings and I were expected to work in them. I started out cleaning the bakeries and made deliveries for the catering part of the business when I got my driver’s license.
One day around 5 a.m., as my dad stirred a large pot of hot custard, he said, “Someday this could all be yours.” I was not exactly thrilled at the prospect. He probably would have liked one of us to take over for him, but he also said we all have our own destiny.
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