Typically, B and I cook together. I base this on the theory that he cooks better than I do, I have zero patience for cooking times, I can't open a bottle of wine on my own, and the fact that he doesn't trust me near knives, hot surfaces, or microwaves. In the kitchen, I am like a toddler with a lit candle in a room full of explosives, and B is my anxiety-ridden mom. But today, B fell victim to a case of allergies and a possible cold, so I was in the kitchen alone. Alone with all of the pointy sharp knives, the stove top
and the oven, the sealed bottles of wine and of course, the scary microwave.
I was cutting the cheese (tee-hee. still funny.) the knife slipped (and by knife I mean potato peeler) and nicked my fingernail. I, of course, screamed, shut my eyes and imagined the worst case scenario. Bryan thought my hand had been severed (he's so dramatic) but I calmed him saying it was only a nicked nail.
At dinner, I was unloading the dishwasher (which was full of...KNIVES!!! AND TUPPERWARE!! GUNS!!!!) and I hit my shin against the sharp corner of the door. I, of course, screamed. B thought I had cut myself while unloading the knives, looking for my other severed hand. No knives, no severed hands.
Then as I was cutting up asparagus, a rogue stalk fell out of my hand and on to the ground so, naturally, I shouted an expletive that most people reserve for stubbed toes or cut up appendages. Out of habit at this point, B asked if I cut myself, rushing over like a trained EMT. And wouldn't you know? Not only did I not cut myself but I didn't overcook it either.
Looks like I
can be trusted with knives and dinner after all.
