Moose in the Kitchen

I’m sorry to inform you that Moose in the Kitchen remains as apt a title as ever. I have the bandaids to prove it. By 10 a.m. this morning, I had already masterminded two kitchen related accidents. First mistake: Decision to eat breakfast on the deck. (I live in California during global warming. Meaning, if you’re sufficiently deluded, you can eat outside and smile at the cherry blossoms through chattering teeth.) I balanced blueberries, coffee, and a soft-boiled egg and headed for the door. Why? Why did I think I could carry three things at once? Hasn’t it been sufficiently proven that attempts to carry anything not swaddled in bubblewrap and tissue paper and cradled in my two delicately-cupped hands always, always results in a mess?

No? OK then. Have at it.

Two seconds later, the blueberries sense freedom and begin rolling frantically for the nearest crevice, the egg makes a quick stop on my pants before dropping to the floor, and I save the coffee, but only just barely. The dog ambles over, sniffs the egg, determines it’s not bacon and wanders off. Not even the smallest hint of sympathy. Ungrateful beast.

I scrape the egg off my thigh, eat what’s left and go to work. Late, I might add. When I get to the office, I head into the kitchen for a napkin. Reaching for the napkin at the back of the shelf, I find plastic forks raining down on my head to form an arc around my feet on the carpet. I use one to pry the last chunk of dried egg off my jeans.

It’s official, I should not be allowed anywhere near a kitchen. Especially if that kitchen contains knives that cut anything harder than butter. If you’re still wondering about that bandaid, prepare for a nice hearty chuckle. (I’m beginning to think my solution should have been less “bandaid” and more “stitches.”)

On Valentine’s Day, I was attempting to make potato leek soup. My very first effort toward this soup was to chop an onion. My very first chop into that onion also chopped through a hefty chunk of finger flesh. This, by the way, was AFTER a three-hour course in knife management. See: 65 bucks wasted, definition of. I shrieked, dropped the knife (not on my foot, thank the gods of pointy objects) and ran to the bathroom, where I stood clutching my finger and moaning. Once the blood started to flow, I knew my sole contribution to the soup was going to be “lift spoon while clutching bloody napkin in place and maybe rocking back and forth inconsolably.”

I checked out the wound yesterday. It seems to be healing, scar tissue attempting to bridge the sliced gap to reattach the hunk of finger-flesh. Welcome to the world, Left Hand Scar Number Four.

I’ve been trying to tiptoe ever so casually away from my usual schtick of klutz who gets lost on her way to the bathroom. I want people to take me seriously, an assignment most find difficult to complete after rescuing me from the closet after I lock myself in because ‘Towels! That must mean there’s a toilet in here too, right?’ I think they assume I know where the bathroom is in my own house. Never assume.

I’m coming to the conclusion that I should embrace my schtick. Love my schtick. Because I will never escape it, especially if I keep wearing cartoon t-shirts because, let’s face it, can you take someone seriously when they’re wearing a yellow Charlie Brown shirt and red sneakers with a Billy Idol haircut and bandaids on three fingers? I didn’t think so.

Related posts:

1. Julia’s Lentil Soup with Andouille
2. Because 87 Straight Days of Cheerios is Code for Rut
3. I Like My OCD with a Side of ADD
4. Dear Musicians Who Live Behind Me,
5. I Have Four Noteworthy Scars