Perhaps it was Linda Hirshman’s revenge mojo that I fell victim to Monday night.
No, she didn’t show up at my home or post something else on my blog about her opinions on what she considers my less-than-noteworthy life path.
This little story has to do with dinnertime. The bane of so many mothers’ existences — trying to get everyone together at the table and finding something new and interesting to cook that doesn’t require the skill of a Top Chef contestant or the budget of Anthony Bourdain.
As I was attempting to use my new favorite cookbook (and a Cool Mom Pick!), my Wusthof slipped as I was cutting up the chicken breast, causing what could only be called my Dan Aykroyd/Julia Child moment:
“Oh, now I’ve done it — I’ve cut the dickens out of my finger!” (Insert spurting Type A- here as I sliced open my left thumb).
OK, I didn’t lose as much blood as the SNL faux-Julia, but suffice it to say that I was severely reprimanded by both the doctor and the nurse at the emergency room the following morning for not getting my butt there when it happened — “Sorry, it’s too late to stitch it up now.”
So, they bandaged it as best they could, made me promise not to wash any dishes for a week (golden!) and dispensed some supplies to help the “laceration” heal.
As the nurse poured them into my hand, I looked up at her and sheepishly said, “Thumb condoms?”
All she said was, “Yup!” Clearly, I was not the first to utter those words.
My mother was quick to point out that they are more correctly called finger gloves, but, hey, that’s no fun to say!