Yesterday being the dutiful wife, I grabbed Carolyn and sneaked away from church to slip a beef brisket in the oven for my husband in celebration of the High Holidays. Carolyn is my daughter’s age, and lived with us years ago. We’d shared bittersweet and some downright funny memories. And then unfortunately for us after a short stay, she returned to Indiana. This weekend she moved back to the sunny state. Hence, the need to kidnap her and catch up.
At home while reminiscing and giggling perhaps a bit too much for the task at hand (literally), I laid the slab of meat out on the butcher block and sliced off a chunk of fat from the brisket. On my second swipe, I nicked my index finger. To the bone. Only then could I fully appreciate the Cutco claim — slices through meat just like butter.
“Has anyone died from a cut finger?” I questioned, running the wound under cold, tinted pink, water.
Carolyn had studied nursing, so I knew she would be brutally honest. “There lies Penny. A victim of Cutco. If only she’d gone Costco – cheap and dull,” she laughed. “Hold your finger higher than your heart.”
I raised my hand above my head. I brought the other arm up to meet it like a Bollywood dancer, so I could grab my finger and apply pressure. “Spin three times,” Carolyn instructed.
Just then the Reporter came into the room. “Who do you think you are — Wonder Woman?”
“Not exactly.” I held up my Brauny towel wrapped finger, infomercial in the making.
“Let’s go buy sterile strips,” said Carolyn.
The line at the register was long. The couple in front of us had several bags of candy in their possession — M & M’s, Reese’s Pieces, and Mounds — definitely more appealing than my purchase. Then I noticed their other items — Compound W and motion sickness tablets. “Is there a correlation between warts and large doses of chocolate?” I whispered to Carolyn.
“Don’t know about that,” she answered, “but I’ve been known to get dizzy when I eat chocolate and do my happy dance.”
We tried the fix-in-the-parking-lot thing, but the bleeding wouldn’t stop.
I drove myself to the emergency room after dropping Carolyn off at church (can’t afford more guilt at his time). The admissions attendant asked, “What are you here for?”
“Breaking Cutco rule #1, failing to cut away from my body,” I said. I wasn’t bleeding enough to let go of my desire to be clever. She looked puzzled. I raised my hand. “Cut finger.”
She turned me over to the intake nurse, “Which finger?”
I’m not playing a trick on you lady, I’m thinking in my inside voice. It’s actually the one dressed up as a gauze doorknob. “My index finger,” I answered politely.
She escorted me to scales. Unless she was trying to calculate the amount of blood lost, I’m thinking this is totally unnecessary.
“Is this work related?” she asked.
“Yes,” I answered. “I don’t remember ever cooking for pleasure.”
Happy New Year, Reporter. Enjoy your brisket – almost a bris, ha-ha. Next year it’s ham. (Just kidding.)
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