One would think that, given my penchant and enthusiasm for cooking, I’d have more skill handling sharp knives than I do. Unfortunately, it seems I also have an inadvertent penchant for self-mutilation while in the kitchen.
At least half my fingers boast some sort of scar resulting from cutting something, the most recent being when I nearly took off the top of my index finger using the mandolin slicer my grandmother gave me last Christmas. To be fair, it was my fault, as I refused to use the protective plastic thingy you’re supposed to put between the hapless veggie and your hand. It felt too unwieldy, at least until I was hopping around the kitchen trying to hold my hand above my head and keep the blood out of the onions.
Time passed, my finger eventually healed, and I recently decided to bring out the mandolin again. With the protective hand thingy, and with a slower pace. It’s a great little device, capable of far finer slices than anything my clumsy, now-scarred fingers can produce. Which makes for much nicer salads, as far as I’m concerned.
So, Grams, I know you were a bit worried when you heard about the finger incident earlier this year. It’s all good, and me & the mandolin are good buddies. At least for now.