On an assembly line, where there are many moving pieces, I submit that no part in the system is more indicative of its health nor as crucial to the practice of continuous improvement than the pause. This seemingly simple concept in its execution is quite complex, but profoundly value-added. In the Toyota Production System, it’s called Jidoka. Everyone on the line has the autonomy to stop it when a defect is found. Deemed golden nuggets in Lean philosophy, these defects are coveted by the entire plant – from the grunts to the suits – and are revered and celebrated as opportunities. Production doesn’t start again until the problem is fixed and the defect has been eliminated.
The pause is so critical to my work with dogs in trauma recovery, I often say the canines enter my system in, or we start at Jidoka. In any case, knowing when to stop the line and having the courage to do so, is of note in this story.
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The vibe is gentle at Littlepage; my nose doesn’t immediately recognize I’m at the vet and neither do the dogs’ tails. The only thing it lacks is the veterinary scent of ubiquity, and, of course, fear.
Cookie and I waltzed in to see Dr. Baker yesterday morning on time, but without a moment to spare. My phone, where I dutifully check in for our appointments in advance, had reached its maximum storage capacity (again) and could not update my emails. We arrived having not completed our assignment, and I announced and apologized for this personal and chronic shortcoming as Crazy Town entered the building.
In response I received grace–a smile, a “no big deal!” and help accomplishing the task.
I had a few minutes in the exam room to help Cookie collect herself and acclimate to the environment while I liberated enough space on my phone to document the appointment. Soon after, there was a knock at the door.
Dr. Baker and her team entered quietly and then calmly knelt down to Cookie’s level, and…drumroll….. NOTHING!… they gave her a minute!
The bougie patient, who did don her pearls for the occasion, sidled up and gave them an endearing A+.
Cookie’s heart got a great report too; Dr. Baker even said she could hear an improvement in the murmur, and successfully got a femoral pulse – first time – without Cookie squirming out of it or messing up her count. Mad respect, Dr. B!
I asked for her professional guidance and help in determining best practices for the niche population of dogs collectively known as my Crazy Town, and to my great relief, my request was met with information, resources, space to learn – an ally.
At the end I was reminded about a credit that was put on our account. All I knew was that a cash donation had been made in support of the Jeezy campaign.
Yesterday, in the wake of FoodE’s raw, real, vulnerable, and astoundingly beautiful post that I’d read just the day prior, Dr. Baker revealed that its owners, dog lovers Joy and Beth, were responsible for that credit. Since Jeezy’s bill resides on my card, it seemed only fitting that I’d settle Cookie’s tab with their generosity, thus adding two women whom I know only by story, legacy, and of course by plate, not just to Jeezy’s story, but also to the ongoing and miraculous narrative about Cardiac Cookie’s atypical ticker.
It’s as cathartic as it is poetic that these 2 trailblazing, fearless women and business owners who transact in matters of the heart as part of living their dream cared enough and took the time to pitch in and help me – a stranger – when I took a chance on my dream and decided stand behind what I believe in even if no one else stood with me.
So… Fredericksburg, if we’re going to put FoodE on blast, then I have a couple additions to throw into the emulsion of critique.
In response to recent unsavory criticism FoodE wrote, “we can’t take the 5 star reviews without accepting the 1s…we took a few days to calibrate, refocus, and get back on a positive track. so, sorry for disappearing on you this week.”
Kudos, FoodE. Kudos for having the tenacity to stop the line and for choosing to look at those 1s as opportunities. RESPECT!
It takes courage to do what they did, a level of grit and emotional bravery I’d expect from a chef like Joy Crump who came into this town with a heart as big as her hair, and showed me in a single meal the art of putting ones soul on a plate. I was working in a kitchen who touted its culinary prowess while serving up greenhouse grown tomatoes in July. Giving the ol’ smell test to the commercially bagged lettuce was part of my standard mise en place. The fancy menu I knew suddenly felt pretentious and sterile, and it didn’t hold a candle to Joy’s pork chops. That day, in their quaint first space, I understood that the magic on the plate had everything to do with the heart of its creator and the feelings it inspires in the consumer. Mastery of skill was only part of the recipe for becoming a great chef; the rest is born inside the hand that wields the knife.
I’m adding 5 stars for that first farm-to-table experience, but with interest it’s about 50,000 stars.
Thank you, Joy and Beth, for how you helped me, quietly, when no one was watching, and for leading with your hearts even when it’s the hardest thing to do.
I’m proud to eat at your table, and have of course enjoyed many meals since that life-changing pork chop. But I look forward to enjoying all my next 5s, because that’s all I’ve ever eaten at FoodE, with an added heap of respect and admiration.