On Sharp Objects

I'm not good with knives. Actually, I'm pretty bad in general with sharp kitchen instruments, including knives. Many years ago when Mark and I had our first 'nice' date, it was at a quiet little dimly lit restaurant with white-shirted waiters and dark red linen napkins.

You certainly see where this is going.

It was a rare treat for two broke university students to eat at a place that didn't serve pub food or pizza, and we were enjoying ourselves quite a bit in the luxurious and subdued atmosphere. Then I ruined the mood completely by cutting open the entire palm of my hand while trying to slice a roll. I spent the rest of the meal with the dark red linen napkin clenched in my fist while Mark smirked at me. Romantic it was not.

Then there was that time a few weeks ago when I plunged my hand into a sink full of dishwater and dishes and cleanly sliced open my finger on the blade of a food processor, from my knuckle to my fingernail. Dripping blood, I went up to Mark's office looking for pity and bandages.

He knows I do this. In fact, it's an established rule in our house that I do not cut bread or bagels. Every morning before work, even if he's rushed, he will cut me two slices of bread with which to make a sandwich for my lunch. If he sees me trying to perform this sort of stunt on my own, he removes the knife from my hand - carefully, as though it might explode - and asks me what I think I am doing. Over the last few weeks the slice on my finger has healed to a fine white line surrounded by new pink skin.

Now, Mark has been out of town for a couple of weeks and is currently in British Columbia. On my own, I've managed to haul a giant double headboard, double boxspring, and mattress down our winding staircase and out to the curb for big garbage day (otherwise known as free yard sale day). I did not injure myself during this process. I've also moved our Ikea bed frame from the master bedroom to the guest room, and set up a 200 year old antique bed frame in the master bedroom. Still not injured! Add to that various little construction projects around the house, and the handling of dozens of dogs at work, and I'm still safe and free from injury.

But the loaf of sourdough bread from the farmer's market. Oh, that lovely sourdough bread with the crispy golden crust. I got cocky, and thought I could cut it with our big serrated bread knife.

Yep. Into the finger it went. I stared at the jagged, dripping edges of this latest clumsy misadventure and considered going to the hospital for a few stitches. I hadn't had lunch though, and the dogs would need to go outside. Also, it's at least a 20 minute drive to the hospital. On top of that, the new foster dog has a vet appointment this afternoon.

Meh.