Please excuse any tpyos, as I am pecking at the keyboard for the first time since typing class in middle school. And trying not to yelp. Granted, only the cat is home to laugh at my pitiful attempt at hacking, but she keeps shooting me totally unsympathetic glares and has been sniffing around at my wounded digit as if she’d make me a meal if I ever die home alone.
As I’ve stated many times, I will never qualify to be a REAL foodie. While I do love to cook and make many dinners my friends consider “fancy-schmancy,” there are a few things I just make straight from the box. Like cake. And potatoes.
Another reason I will never be a real foodie: apparently I lack basic slicing skills. I can wield a knife just fine, thank you, but I am not responsible enough to use a mandolin slicer.
SunDAY was lovely, the kind of day I fantasized about when I imagined my life as a grown-up with a family. I enjoyed a yoga class in the morning, then Hubby, Kiddo, and I rode our bikes to the park for a leisurely afternoon of reading, playing, and quality family time. I had no choice but to complete the Rockwell-esque day with a classic Sunday dinner. I make a mean meatloaf (and if you don’t like meatloaf, it’s only because you’ve never had a good one), and I wanted something homestyle, something evoking images of June Cleaver in an apron (and pearls and heels) to pair with it. I still had potatoes leftover from Christmas, so I decided make some scalloped potatoes from scratch. No problem, right?
Wrong. So. Utterly. Wrong.
I make homemade potatoes once a year, at Christmas. And these potatoes kick ass, but they take far too much time and effort to make on a regular basis. (I’ll post the fantabulous recipe one of these days.) We don’t go the potato route often, but when we do, I usually leave it to Betty-in-a-box.
The savory meatloaf went into the oven, I peeled the potatoes (a task I HATE), then broke out the mandolin. First potato sliced up fine. I turned to my Hubby, who was washing dishes beside me, and bragged, “Look how EASY this is.“
Famous last words. Never, ever utter such a challenge to the fates when dealing with razor sharp blades. Might as well just shoot myself in the foot.
The second potato was oddly shaped, like funky turnip or a turd. It wouldn’t stay in the SAFETY guard. It was so long— my fingers were inches away from the blade — I figured I’d just trim down one end flat so it would fit into the safety guard.
Slice. Slice. Slice. SCREAM.
I looked down and all I saw was red. And firework bursting before my eyes.
I threw my finger under the faucet and screamed at my Hubby to get me a towel. He gave me a wad of paper towels, which I pressed to my finger as I slid down to the floor.
I sat there, with the cabinets holding me upright, direct pressure on my wound, for a good 20 minutes. Kiddo offered to call 9-1-1 for me. The bleeding must have stopped, as nothing was dripping onto the floor or anything, so I passed on that idea.
Hubby peeked around the potato slices, checking for any lurking finger parts. He found none. But there had to be something there. Then he actually asked if I wanted to save the damn potatoes. Hell, no — I do not want a side of skin with my potatoes, thanks. (Oh, trying not to get nauseous…)
Eventually, I had to get my finger bandaged properly. I can’t look at my own blood. I will pass out faster than you can say “I am a freaking wuss.” It was up to Hubby. As soon as he removed my compressed paper towels, I screamed. He panicked. He threw some antibiotic on some gauze and slapped it on my finger.
I ran through my entire repertoire of swear words. Yes, it burned that &*%$#*@ bad.
Eventually the pain receded and we managed to eat dinner (and we didn’t even burn the meatloaf, yeah!). I sucked down a well-deserved glass of wine.
But we still have no idea how much of my finger was sliced off. We are all afraid to asses the damage.
When I called my parents this morning, I received absolutely no sympathy. None. Instead they laughed hysterically. Maybe I should drive a half hour to have them change the bandages and check the damage. (Okay, my mom worked the desk at an ER and my dad was a paramedic — I’d have to lose a full appendage to get sympathy, I suppose.) It’s just a flesh wound…
I wonder if I can convince the Kiddo to tend to my finger. Maybe I can bribe him with a new Skylander?
Typing without a finger utterly sucks.