I wanted pizza something awful, today. And when I want something, I don’t let go easily.
I may have mentioned this low-glycemic lifestyle of mine. Pizza is part of it as long as it has a suitable, low-carb crust. I’ve tried cauliflower crust–not so great. I’ve tried flax crust–icky. They both taste like eggs. Back when I ate
real conventional pizza, I was obsessed with getting the crust right. I finally perfected it–and then I quit wheat.
So today on break I searched ‘low glycemic pizza crust’ and found a recipe with promise: almond flour crust. I picked up toppings, and when Wal-Mart had no almond flour, I decided to try grinding my own.
Yeah, that didn’t work.
I tried the crust before I topped it. It was… chewy. And i don’t mean that nice chewy, like French bread, or a chocolate-chip cookie. I mean like the kind of chewy you don’t want milk to be.
But I wanted pizza. Surely if I had regular, find-ground almond flour, the crust would be good. It seemed okay, but for the texture. So I said ‘to heck with it–it’s Friday night and I’ve got nowhere to be’ and shot off to the nearest Superstore.
Superstore was out of almond flour.
“Sh–!” I said. (Sorry Mom. This entire escapade involved a few more swear words than I can admit to without blushing.) I was hungry, by now. It was seven. I was wandering, wishing I could just cave and eat regular-people food.
Well, thought I, the health food store may still be open. And I sure as heck am not going home now that i’m out here. I went to the health-food store. It was open. There was almond flour. It cost about as much as a new SUV. I gulped. I paid. I went out to my car, ready to cry.
This better be good.
When I assembled the crust, it looked okay so I topped it with provolone, pepperoni, spinach and mushrooms. It baked up looking and smelling heavenly.
**takes a deep breath**
Nope. It was disgusting. I ate a piece, hoping it would get better. I ate another little piece. And then I just tore the yummy toppings off and left the crust. I picked up the crust, carried it to the kitchen and threw it into the garbage. And then I cried. I cried all the way from the kitchen to the bathroom, and then to my room as I changed out of my pizza-scented clothes.
It’s melodramatic, I know, but it feels like a metaphor for my entire week–maybe month. Work has been one screw up after the next. Yesterday I had a ‘competency assessment’ after a judgment call of mine went sour and I screwed up a coat. Today my senior operator pulled me out of my process room and took me aside to discuss another mistake–a mistake that resulted when coworkers pulled me in to help sort out an issue.
I threw up my hands and said to the senior op, “Why did they have to ask me?”
“Because they think of you as the next subject matter expert in coating,” he said.
I squinted at him. “Thank you for saying that.”
“No really,” he said. “When I make my schedule in the morning, I only have a couple of people I can trust to run a pan on their own and you are one of them.”
I hoped he was serious. I said to him “Are these the kind of speed bumps I have to hurdle to become an SME? (subject matter expert)”
He turned and looked at me. “Hey, I only know what I know because I f—ed up so many times.”
Unfortunately, it seems life is like that. We must go from failure to failure to succeed. It’s crossed my mind that, perhaps, I should be encouraged by the volume of my failures. They are, in part, because I’ve been asserting a lot more independence, even branching out and training a coworker.
I remember four different coworkers (a senior operator, a supervisor and two training specialists) who have told me stories of big, big failures they’ve had on the job–lectures from quality analysts, thousands of dollars of product wasted. But they’re still there, and much more successful than I am.
It puts my mess into perspective, even if it doesn’t take away the sting.
Thomas Edison said “I have not failed. I’ve just found 10,000 ways that won’t work.” Almond crust is out. But I have low-carb pitas that are coming soon. And you can be darn sure I’ll have pizza then. In this life, or the next, I shall have my pizza.