I hate bacon.
Everything about bacon, I can’t stand—its smell, its grease, its coloring. Especially its taste.
Yet every Sunday, for the past two years, I’ve made bacon. Trays and trays of bacon.
I’ve touched its rawness and plotted its grease, all in the name of Panera’s Bacon, Egg and Cheese on ciabatta sandwich for some rude customer stopping by after mass.
Oh no. Out of bacon.
“Sir, I’m really sorry but it will be about a 10 minute wait for that; we have to make more bacon.”
“How is this possible? Really? A breakfast place with no bacon? You’ve got to be kidding me.”
I bite my tongue; I don’t want to upset him.
Something I’ve become really good at: tolerance. Befriend the bad guys and adore the good ones. Give them free cookies, a latte, a puppy! Anything to compensate for the, now 7 minute, wait for their precious, artery clogging bacon.
Make more bacon. Fix the problem. Now. Faster.
Problem solving, a skill I have perfected. My innovative mind controls the café, from employee training to coffee brewing and of course, bacon making. Solving problems quicker than they arise, I’m always alert.
“Sir, your sandwich is ready! Again, I apologize for the wait on that. Sunday mornings are crazy!”
“Pfft, yeah, sure, whatever. Thanks.”
Mumbles. I expected that.
I brush it off—I won’t let it tear me down.
Sometimes, conflicts happen and we run out of bacon. No one’s perfect—I’m sure not. But I strive to be. I strive to always have bacon. Even if, I hate it.