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.
Have totally done this. And I write a food blog. I still use my mandolin but live in deep and mortal fear of it (much like my garbage disposal….). Great article, hope you're feeling better!
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Glad to hear I'm not alone! If you are brave enough to use the slicer again, I suppose the finger healed?
OMG, I feel faint. Apparently not only can I not look at my own blood, I can't read about anyone else's either. Although the particular digit that was wounded is priceless – all the better to say, "Eff you," with to Betty Crocker. And mandolins. Right? 😉
Is it really THAT finger lol? I live in fear of the mandolin … I am wise beyond my years 😉
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Yes, it really is THAT finger. Which is good, because you actually use the middle finger far less than say the index finger, but bad because I've been basically going about my business with that finger up in the air (not as dramatically as in the pic) .
Mandolins – yes. Betty is my new best friend though. Going to buy her potatoes in bulk.
Wow, that sucks. I've never used a mandolin and never will. I've gotten good enough with a chef knife that I can slice and dice just about anything into any shape you may want.
I did take a good chunk off the tip of my thumb when I worked at a deli – cut so clean I didn't even know it happened until I saw the blood.
Sweetie, that's why you're supposed to use a food guard when you are using a mandolin. Did yours not come with one?
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Yes, Darling, but the potato was stubborn and wouldn't fit IN the guard. I was just trying to flatten one side so I could USE the damn guard. {grumble grumble curse} So, maybe not the best idea. Lesson learned. But I still thing the thing was just out to get me.
Ouch! Hope it healed up quick? Did it all grow back?
That post sent shivers up my spine — and not the good kind. I have a mandolin, and knock on wood, I've had no major injuries with it yet. I even used it this Thanksgiving for the first time with potatoes, too, and I did exactly what you did with a couple — sliced them down a bit to flatten them enough for the guard. Yikes!
Two years ago, my husband got me a gorgeous new chef's knife for Christmas and the first time I used it (dangit, I think I was slicing potatoes, too!), I sliced right into my finger. I felt it hit the bone. Ugh! I'll never forget that feeling. Horrendous. I still cringe a little time when I pick it up.
As if cooking's not already hard enough — why must it be a mortal danger, too?
Feel better!
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I have so done this too! Doesn't feel great and takes forever to heal but I keep going back to my slicer!
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Ugh! I didn't even know what a mandolin (until the picture) was – so between that and NOT being able to wield a knife without slicing myself…..I will NEVER be a foodie.
BUT, I will say that (usually) making a cake from scratch is pretty much exactly the same as making it from a box….all they do is package the dry ingredients for you.
Hope the finger heals soon! And I had to laugh at the picture of it.
Haha! Oh no!! Definitely not laughing at you, but the way you told this story is hilarious. Hope your finger heals soon so you can type again 🙂
They always are. I fear them. They are tricksy and filled with malice.
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Lots of laughter and love — and connections!
SO happy I found you.
Cheers,
Christine
xxoo
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Just wanted to pop in and say Happy SITS Day! Great post, too. It gives a whole new meaning to "giving the finger"!
This is exactly why I don't cook. It's dangerous! Hope your finger is okay 🙂
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OH NO! But I do love what finger and the last picture! Perfect ending. BTW – did you know Betty Crocker is fake?! Not even a real person??!! I just discovered this last week for one of my posts… it's shocking right?!
Based on your pictures, it looks like those potatoes gave you the finger.
We received a mandolin for our wedding and after using it a couple times, and nearly losing a hand, we took it back to the store. Awful contraption.
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There are two tools that scare me:
1. staple gun
2. mandolin
For the reason that I am accident prone and I value my extremities.
OMG! I've always wondered if those things were dangerous. And now I know!
Thanks for your blog comments this week, around the interwebs,
Sarah P.
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Oh no! I laughed, gasped & winced all at once! Oh, man, that is terrible. Yeah, I can imagine parents like that wouldn't be very sympathetic!
(Thanks for linking this up to #findingthefunny!)
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I'm laughing because my mother sliced her finger on Christmas and she's the worst patient EVER. My father was an EMT for 30 years and everyone used to say he was so great and could really calm down the patients. Yeah, not so much at home. So, she needed him to wrap her finger for her and it was a screaming match of "oooh ahhh" wincing and whining and him going "would you hold still, stop that, calm down, will you". Every time she needed to change the bandage! And then she'd say "i don't know why they said he was so great on the ambulance, look what he did" and it was such a half assed job! She finally enlisted my sister to change it because she couldn't do it herself. She didn't need stitches but cut some significant skin and it was pretty deep. Made for a fabulous Christmas with her finger in the air the whole time!
And I'm all about NOT using things from a box, as you might have recently read on my blog and most certainly, never a potato from a box. I'm on a crusade. I'm going to start a new movement. The antibox movement. I swear!
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