喬布斯教我爲人子 爲人父的那些事

A couple of months ago, right after my first son was born, I thought about the lessons I wanted to pass along to him that I had learned a little late in life. Among the morals I scribbled down in my mind one that stood out began with a story involving Steve Jobs and ended with the serving of my mother’s last meal.

幾個月前，我的第一個兒子出生時，我想着自己人生中各種遲遲才學到的經驗教訓，能夠傳授給他。在我銘記於心的種種道德準則中，最突出的一條始於一個同史蒂夫·喬布斯(Steve Jobs)有關的故事，終結於我母親的最後一餐。

The Jobs portion of the story occurred on a late-October morning in 2010, when he was sitting with a mutual friend in the restaurant of the Four Seasons hotel in San Francisco. The waitress, a shy woman who looked to be in her mid-30s, according to the friend, approached them and asked what they wanted for breakfast. Mr. Jobs said he wanted freshly squeezed orange juice.

喬布斯的故事發生在2010年10月底的一個清晨，當時他和我們共同的一位朋友坐在舊金山四季酒店的餐廳裏。侍者是個羞澀的女人，大約35歲左右，朋友說，她走過來問他們早餐要吃什麼。喬布斯說想要鮮榨橙汁。

After a few minutes, the waitress returned with a large glass of juice. Mr. Jobs took a tiny sip and told her tersely that the drink was not freshly squeezed. He sent the beverage back, demanding another.

幾分鐘後，侍者拿來一大杯橙汁。喬布斯嚐了一小口，就簡短生硬地告訴她，這果汁不是鮮榨的。他退還了這杯飲料，要她換一杯。

A few minutes later, the waitress returned with another large glass of juice, this time freshly squeezed. When he took a sip he told her in an aggressive tone that the drink had pulp along the top. He sent that one back, too.

幾分鐘後，女侍者又拿來一大杯果汁，這一次是鮮榨的了。他又嚐了一小口，用嚴厲的口吻告訴她，果汁裏有果肉浮在最上面。他把這杯也退回去了。

My friend said he looked at Mr. Jobs and asked, “Steve, why are you being such a jerk?”

我的朋友說他看着喬布斯，問：“史蒂夫，你幹嘛要這麼混蛋。”

Mr. Jobs replied that if the woman had chosen waitressing as her vocation, “then she should be the best.”

喬布斯回答說，如果那個女人選擇當侍者作爲自己的職業，“那麼她就應該做到最好。”

Hearing this story, I was immediately put off by how Mr. Jobs had acted; he was being — to borrow from his breakfast companion — a jerk. But looking past his rudeness (Maybe he was having a bad day?), I couldn’t get the idea out of my mind: No matter what you do for a living, should you do the best work possible?

聽了這個故事，我一下子就對喬布斯的所作所爲產生了反感； 用與之共進早餐的朋友的話來說，他確實是個混蛋。但是如果除去他的粗魯（也許他那天正好心情不好？），我無法把這個念頭趕出腦海：不管你靠什麼謀生，難道不應該做到最好嗎？

Of course, this question breaks down a bit when a job is just a job; it’s not your vocation. It can be especially disheartening when you don’t believe that what you’re doing for a living is appreciated or that it is having very little impact on other people’s lives.

當然，如果你的工作只是一份工作，而不是你的“職業”，這個問題就有點不成立了。當你不相信自己謀生的工作受人欣賞，或者對其他人的生活有那麼一丁點影響，這會讓人非常沮喪。

I get it. I was a waiter for many years. I was a line cook. I worked in the garment district in New York City carrying spools of fabric between warehouses. I worked in a salon washing women’s hair. And I worked for a birthday-party camp, dressing up in one of those giant furry character outfits (they stink inside) and doing magic tricks for kids who were not impressed by my card skills.

我明白這種感覺。我曾經當過好多年的侍者。我還當過流水線廚師。我曾經在紐約市的服裝區工作，在一個個倉庫之間運送大匹大匹的面料。我曾經在髮廊裏爲女士們洗頭。我還曾經在一個生日派對營工作，和其他人一起扮成巨大的毛絨玩具（那些衣服裏面真的很臭），給孩子們變魔術，不過他們對我玩撲克的技巧不怎麼欣賞。

And yet it wasn’t until my mother found out that she had terminal cancer in mid-March and was given a prognosis of only two weeks to live that I learned even if a job is just a job, you can still have a profound impact on someone else’s life. You just may not know it.

但是直到3月中，母親被診出癌症晚期，只有兩個月生命的時候，我才明白，就算一份工作只是一份工作，你仍然可以對他人的生活產生深遠的影響。你可能只是覺察不到而已。

My mother loved shrimp. She had no qualms about where her shrimp came from, if they were fresh or frozen, large or small. She would eat them in a grimy airport cafe or a five-star restaurant. And when she was done with her crustaceans, she always beamed a big smile and, in her posh British accent, said, “Oh, that was just lovely.”

母親喜歡吃蝦。不管蝦來自哪裏，不在乎它們是新鮮的還是冷凍的、大的還是小的。不管是在髒兮兮的機場餐廳抑或五星級飯店，她都要吃蝦。飽餐之後，她總是露出燦爛的笑容，用漂亮的英音說，“不錯不錯。”

My mother was the one who taught me how to cook shrimp — and everything else. (When I was really young, I was allowed to lick the leftover chocolate cake icing out of the bowl when I helped in the kitchen.) So I jumped at the chance to become her personal chef for the last two weeks of her life.

正是母親教會了我怎麼做蝦——還有各種其他菜餚（小時候，如果我在廚房打下手，她就允許我舔去碗裏剩下的巧克力蛋糕糖衣）。所以在她人生的最後兩星期裏，我就抓住機會當上了她的私人大廚。

When she asked for some vegetables to nibble on, I fastidiously julienned a cucumber into thin slices, layering them atop one another in a semicircle on a florid porcelain plate.

她想要吃可以慢慢嚼的青菜，我便一絲不苟地把一根黃瓜切得薄薄的，一片片列成半圓形，用華麗的瓷盤盛着。

When she asked for a pita and hummus, I cut the bread into perfect little triangles, found elegant small bowls in her cupboards, and carefully quenelled three dipping options, as if Thomas Keller were watching over my shoulder.

她要吃皮塔餅和鷹嘴豆泥，我就把麪包切成完美的三角形，從她的櫃櫥找出精緻的小碗，小心翼翼盛上三種蘸醬，就像托馬斯·凱勒（Thomas Keller，美國名廚——譯註）在身邊監視。

I proudly took every meal to her on her finest china, placed carefully on an ornate tray and finished off with a single English flower. I prepared every menu with meticulous detail, unsure if the meal I was taking to her bedside would be her last.

我滿心自豪地用她最好的瓷器盛放每一餐，用裝飾華麗的托盤精心盛放，還要在旁邊點綴一種英國花卉。每道菜我都一絲不苟地注重細節，因爲不知道我爲她準備的哪頓飯會成爲她的最後一餐。

As the days went by, her appetite started to wane, as did her mind. The meals she asked for grew smaller and smaller. There were fewer slices of cucumber and one less dipping sauce. Then she stopped eating altogether, barely able to finish a cup of white tea.

隨着時間過去，她的飯量愈來愈小，神志也開始變得不清醒。她要的菜愈來愈少。盤子裏的黃瓜片和蘸醬只有一點。最後她完全無法進食，連一杯白茶也喝不完。

We all knew the end was near.

我們都明白她大限將至。

Then one evening my mother became incredibly lucid and called for me. She was craving shrimp, she said. “I’m on it,” I told her as I ran down to the kitchen. “Shrimp coming right up!”

一天晚上，母親突然異常清醒，把我叫到身邊，說她想吃蝦。“我去弄，”我邊說邊跑進廚房。“蝦馬上就來！”

The problem was, I didn’t have any. So I did what anyone in that situation would do: I called for takeout. From my mother’s house in Leeds, England, the closest place was Sukhothai, a tiny nondescript Thai restaurant a few miles away. My sister ordered, and we headed over in the car as quickly as we could.

問題是，我根本就沒有蝦。所以我做了任何人在這種情況下都會做的事：打電話叫外賣。母親的家在英格蘭利茲，附近最近的餐館是幾英里外一家名不見經傳的小小泰餐館，名叫素可泰(Sukhothai)。我的姊妹打電話點了單，我們飛快地衝進車子。

The restaurant was bustling. In the open kitchen in the back I could see a dozen men and women frantically slaving over the hot stoves and dishwashers, with busboys and waiters rushing in and out.

那家餐館裏亂哄哄的。我看見後面的敞開式廚房裏有十幾個男男女女在爐竈和洗碗機邊熱火朝天地賣命苦幹，小工和侍者們不停進進出出。

While I stood waiting for my mother’s shrimp, I watched all these people toiling away and I thought about what Mr. Jobs had said about the waitress from a few years earlier. Though his rudeness may have been uncalled-for, there was something to be said for the idea that we should do our best at whatever job we take on.

我站在那兒，等着給母親的蝦，看着這些人忙忙碌碌，突然想起幾年前喬布斯說過的關於侍者的那番話。儘管他的粗魯完全沒有必要，但“不管做什麼工作都應當做到最好”這個理念確實有一定道理。

This should be the case, not because someone else expects it. Rather, as I want to teach my son, we should do it because our jobs, no matter how seemingly small, can have a profound effect on someone else’s life; we just don’t often get to see how we’re touching them.

事情理應如此，並不是因爲別人的期待。我想告訴兒子的是：這是因爲我們的工作不管看上去多麼渺小，都可能會對他人的生活產生深遠的影響；我們只是無法經常親眼目睹我們是以什麼樣的方式觸動他們。

Certainly, the men and women who worked at that little Thai restaurant in northern England didn’t know that when they went into work that evening, they would have the privilege of cooking someone’s last meal.

是的，這些在英國北部的小小泰餐館裏工作的男女們不知道，他們如常工作的這個晚上，將會有幸爲某人烹製一生中的最後一餐。

It was a meal that I would unwrap from the takeout packaging in my mother’s kitchen, carefully plucking four shrimp from the box and meticulously laying them out on one of her ornate china plates before taking it to her room. It was a meal that would end with my mother smiling for the last time before slipping away from consciousness and, in her posh British accent, saying, “Oh, that was just lovely.”

就是這一餐：我在母親的廚房裏打開外賣包裝，小心翼翼地從盒子裏拿出四隻大蝦，悉心放在一隻精美的瓷盤裏，拿進她的房間。就是這一餐，母親吃完，最後一次露出笑容，用她那漂亮的英音說，“不錯不錯”，然後慢慢陷入了長眠。