Most kitchen cabinets are filled with spices, Tupperware, tea bags, cups and dishes. My cabinets have a bit extra–band aids, peroxide, burn cream and I think there was gauze in there at one point. While I understand that a first aid kit in a kitchen is a good idea, for me it’s necessity. Why? Because I injure myself in the kitchen on at least a weekly basis.
Just two days ago, I stabbed myself with a knife. It was an innocent accident involving an avocado but man, does that tiny little puncture wound hurt! This incident is just the most recent in a long line of kitchen injuries that make me look like I’ve been at war with my kitchen and the kitchen emerges victorious.
Some of the injuries are minor–a cut from a can, a slice from a knife or a surface burn from too hot water or oil. However, I have managed to score some serious battle scars during my time in the kitchen. I have a pretty good scar on my hand from the time I sliced it open on…something. I don’t remember what I was cutting but there sure was a lot of blood! But the absolute worst kitchen scar I have in on my right forearm.
How did I get this scar? Well, for my husband’s 30th birthday, I decided to cook him dinner since I couldn’t afford to take him out. I asked what he wanted and the menu was simple: steak, baked sweet potato and sautéed asparagus. The steak and asparagus were no problem but the sweet potato presented some challenges.
To start with, I had never baked a sweet potato before, never mind actually using the oven to do it (my potatoes are baked where every good potato is baked…the microwave). So I wrapped the potato in tin foil, put it in the oven on broil and let it do its thing. After about 1/2 hour or so, I decided to check on it. I put on the oven mitts and in I went.
Now, a word about oven mitts–they don’t cover your whole arm. They only go up to about your mid-forearm. So, if you’re going to pull food out of the oven, it is important to remember that there are parts of your arm exposed. These parts should never, under any circumstances, touch the metal part of the oven just inside the door (it’s OK if you need to stop reading to go check your oven to see what I’m talking about). It’s really, really, really hot.
But that’s exactly what happened to me. I had a moment of carelessness or stupidity, I’m not sure which, and somehow managed to singe my arm on that metal part. A huge blister (we’re talking HUGE. Domed sports stadiums could have been modeled after that thing) formed on my arm instantly. It was disgusting. And it hurt. A lot.
I put everything I could think of on it. Water, butter (full disclosure: butter and I don’t have a good track record. Just as it’s not good for burns, it’s also not good for greasing your arm when it’s stuck behind a couch. I don’t care what they show on TV) and burn cream. Nothing could calm that sucker down. It just kept growing, like a giant tidal wave of disgustingness and pain. Let’s not even discuss what happened when that thing popped. I shudder just remembering it. And you, my dear friends, deserve to have an appetite today.
Eventually, the pain subsided and the blister disappeared but now I’m left with a freakish looking scar right in the middle of my arm. I’m also left with a constant reminder of what I put myself through in the name of love! I’ll tell you this, though–it’s my trump card. If my husband ever dares (and he’s smart enough not to but just in case) to complain that I don’t do anything for his birthday, I just pull out the scar. To quote Michael Caine in Miss Congeniality, you can’t beat that.