On Monday night I had the brilliant idea of combining two recipes I found on the web in order to create our own pizza. I thought it'd both be a fun family night activity for Ben and I and fancied myself a bit of a genius, but I also thought I could make a lesson out of it. In my mind I'd imagined us pleasantly discussing yeast and how it is within the dough and it makes the dough rise in the right conditions just as we have characteristics that are divine that will grow if we give it the right environment.
I was tired when I got home but I'd had a plan and was going to make sure it happened. I went out to the supermarket and grabbed all of the ingredients and as I pulled up at home I realised that Ben was already there. I was excited!
We made the dough and after a little confusion due to recipe mixing, we made the tomato base and then it was time for the really fun bit. We decorated our pizzas with Parmesan, Mozzarella, pepper and pepperoni which we generously sprawled across the tomato background.
Finally, we put them in the hot oven to cook. After a while the smell was just so gorgeous and so tempting we couldn't help ourselves but have a peek to see if they were done. After pulling them out of the oven and lying them on the top for a moment we decided they needed a couple more minutes. But there was a definite finish line and we could almost taste them.
I picked the tray up from the counter and opened the oven... and ceremoniously dropped the pizzas all over the lowered oven door. The tray wasn't burning me and I didn't bump into anything. I just literally had one end on the shelf and instead of pushing them back, tipped all of our very nearly delicious food off the tray. Completely, 100% my fault.
I was tired and I cried inconsolably as Ben tried to scoop up the remnants and preserve it to no avail. We scrubbed the door of the oven together while I cried. The words, "I'm *sob* never *sniff* cooking *blubber* anything *sniff* again" passed my lips, among many other things.
The time was getting late so we packed it all up and Ben comforted me by telling me that he would get rid of the pizza and the mess we'd made the day after. We went round to my parents to practice some music and were supplied with enough cookies and strawberries to keep us happy. I was glad we were so nearby... without even mentioning our disaster, we could go around and escape from it.
I was so aware of my failure the next day and had told Ben that the remains of the tomato sauce could probably be mixed with something and we'd have a pasta-based dish with it; but I couldn't stop thinking about it. I was particularly aware of the fact that the pizza-making had been apparently part of our lesson and so perhaps I should have learned something from it. I thought about my hasty retreat and surrender when I'd made the mistake I did and I resolved that I would not shrink away so easily after all.
I got home tired, got the few bits we needed for my re-attempt and got back into the kitchen. By the time Ben came home, they were ready to go in the oven. Ten minutes later- they tasted very acceptable indeed.
I'm grateful for second chances. I'm also grateful for the third and fourth etc. The title of the blog is the lesson that I learned. I can't say that my knee-jerk reaction won't be to cry in these situations as I'm pretty sure that is not likely to change quickly, BUT I'm learning about better ways to react in order to behave like one of the women that I admire in my life.
So, I guess I might just have to drop a few pizzas to end up being the person I would like to become.
And that's alright with me.
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