Writing today’s blog is a painful experience: literally.
I’m going to show you why..but be warned the image you’re about to see is not for the weak of stomach. In fact, I’m getting a little nauseous myself at…not only the site of it…but the memory of how it occurred.
Are you ready?
Wait for it:
That’s right..against the pleadings of my wife and children for me to avoid sharp objects because of my propensity towards…and documented history of…injuring myself, I’ve gone and done it again.
My enjoyment for food preparation and desire that knives be well honed..continue to block out their concerns as I throw caution to the wind and slice away at fruits and vegetables with reckless abandon convinced that all of the other incidents of accidental self-mutilation didn’t happen; even though I have little scars on several fingers that serve as a constant reminder of my klutziness around the kitchen.
Now, I watch lots of cooking shows on television; have for years. Most of them on PBS. Shows like Cooks Country, American Test Kitchen, Lidia, Jacque, Martha, Rick and Pati. (I used to watch the Food Network but it’s become nothing but reality TV-type competitions that specialize in humiliating contestants and restaurateurs.
Anyway, all chefs say that a sharp knife is much safer than a dull one.
With that in mind, several years ago, I set out to replace our cheap knives with the ones used and recommended on America’s Test Kitchen.
It’s this one..which keeps on winning annual ATK tests and is modestly priced. (25 to 50 bucks for the chef knife. Unlike mine, the one pictured has no human blood stains.
The most recent incident which led to the above top photo..really wasn’t my fault. I had just purchased a giant sweet onion from the Hokeness produce stand (only one batch of super sweet corn this season) and was preparing to dice it up just like on TV when it began to roll off the counter. I instinctively reached to grab it with both hands. Unfortunately, the right one was armed with my Victorinox Forschner knife with enough of its razor edge blade exposed to carve a sixteenth inch deep slice into the tip of my left hand ring finger..causing it to squirt blood like a Quinten Tarantino movie.
Of course there was no pain at first…but in the other room, Linda could hear me utter an expletive which she knows by now can only mean that I have once again perpetuated the Doug Lund stereotype and caused bodily harm to myself with a kitchen utensil while pretending to be something I’m not.
Remembering her wedding vows, though, she dutifully wrapped my wound with a Mr. Brawny paper towel…told me to hold it tight against my now pulsating injury while she searched through the medicine cabinet for the Band-Aids.
As she administered her medical skills (gleaned from over 30 years working for doctors) I mistakenly glanced down at the laceration becoming a bit woozy at the sight and wondering aloud if I’d ever play guitar or golf again.
“Hush ya big baby,” she said. “I don’t even think you need stitches.”
And, she was correct, of course.
It’s much better already.
In fact, I’m heading to the golf course this week to give it a go.
As far as playing my guitar..most who’ve heard me in the past will say..take all the time you need, Doug.
Let that finger heal for a few years.
