To be honest, I don’t like this saying too much. It’s overused. It’s gotten thrown around so many times that I don’t really want to use it anymore. But without it, I wouldn’t be able to describe my love for baking. Or basic movements for that matter, like walking. When I fell on the ground for the first time, I picked myself up and tried again. Even if I don’t remember any of it happening, I knew it occurred, because I can walk easily now on those same two feet. I find it amazing. And to think if I ever did give up on something the very first time I tried it, then I probably would’ve missed out.
Like baking. About a year ago, I had a horrible experience with baking. Since my parents usually store their pots and pans inside the oven, every time I wanted to bake, I had to make sure to bring all the cookware out before turning on the oven. One day, I forgot about the pans completely and preheated the oven. It wasn’t long until I started smelling this burning scent, but I ignored it. I figured it was probably just the oven preheating, that’s all. After 15 minutes or so, my father came into the kitchen and began inspecting the oven. He saw smoke come out from above it. He asked if I had anything inside, and still completely oblivious to the fact that all the pots and pans were heating up in there, I shook my head no. Once he opened it up for himself, heavy smoke filled the air. “How did you forget to take out the pots and pans?!” he yelled. “You could have burned the house down!” This huge amount of guilt washed over me. I apologized quickly, and helped my dad take out all the pots and pans out and into the backyard. There was even a small beginning of fire from pot wrapped around a cardboard box. A plastic lid melted completely and stuck onto the metal tray my mom kept in the oven. I felt horrible. The whole time I was carrying things out I thought of how stupid I was, and what I could do to make it up. I began to cry. I told myself I wouldn’t bake again, for fear that it might be worse next time. My dad forgave me, but I didn’t forgive myself.
It wasn’t until a month afterwards that I officially told my parents that I would give up on baking, because of all the trouble I caused from the last time I baked. They sat down with me and told me they forgive me, and not to be so hard on myself. They comforted me, saying they knew it was an accident and that everything was fine. They also said that I should continue to bake, and nothing little like this should stand in the way of my love for baking. It was because of that pep-talk that allowed me to look past that terrible experience and keep baking. I’m so happy that I was able to look past it, because if I didn’t, I would’ve lost something I loved to do.
That’s my little story on never giving up. I hope all you chickeneers out there won’t give up on what you love doing. If it makes you happy, don’t let anything stand in the way of it. Work hard and perfect your skill. Stay happy. 🙂
Here’s a cute penguin that might help: (click!)
-Post by Cinnamon Roll.