Last week I cut myself with a bread knife. It was very unpleasant as we have no type of medical supplies here whatsoever. Thankfully, no blood got on the rolls we were about to eat. It was about a three inch (serrated) gash in the palm of my left hand below my thumb. The hubs creatively secured a sling of paper towels around my hand as I continually and repeatedly asked for a band-aid in an extremely panicked and concerned tone. Because having a band-aid over the cut would heal it. Because band-aids are magic!…hence my inane inquiries for a band-aid. The hubs wiped the blood off the bread knife and continued to cut the rolls and make us lunch very calmly while I sat on the couch, “Can I have a band-aid? Can you get me a band-aid? When are you going to get me a band-aid? Is it going to be soon? I really need a band-aid.” He wisely didn’t answer but we eventually made our way to a Drogerie/Apothecary (aka Pharmacy). I had no forethought in regards to figuring out the word for “band-aid” in Czech (obviously – one-track mind) so I just asked for band-aids in English. Thankfully the clerk understood, showing me a chart with seven different options and I finally got that band-aid. Of course, within four hours of applying the band-aid and having washed my hands at least once during that duration of time, the stickiness of the band-aid was gone and I foregoed wearing a band-aid altogether.
What you may find ironic, reader, is that I used to be a cook in a restaurant. And yes, I cut myself there, too. No, not while cutting anything…while collecting the cucumbers I had just cut (at least it wouldn’t have been as pathetic if it had been while cutting). Big glops of red dripped from the ring finger of my right hand into the manager’s trashcan as he tried to apply enough pressure and stop the bleeding enough to wrap it in three band-aids and enough gauze to replace marshmallows in Fluffy Bunny. He then sent me back to work…cutting…with my right hand up in the air. I’m pretty sure I needed stitches as the flap of skin hanging off my finger took a long while to heal. But I actually really like all my scars – like battle wounds…but more like life wounds. Each one has it’s own ridiculously lame story.
Safe to say, there is a good reason why I have been sticking to baking and oven-related cooking as that usually forgoes the use of knives. Due to the cold weather and the recent purchase of some delicious-looking red potatoes, I attempted to make twice-baked potatoes. Without the use of a microwave, I had to bake the potatoes in the oven for about an hour first…but as my oven and I have yet to come to an peaceful agreement, I overcooked them…a bit. I went to cut into them and the skins were the texture of leaves/paper/wood. Thankfully, the insides were soft and I made them into delicious mashed potatoes, spooning them back into the crunchy skin boats (that sounds kinda gross). Even after I told the hubs that I had overcooked the skins, he still took a giant bite out of the potato, skin and all.
“It’s more chewy than crunchy,” he said.