Last night, I was cooking corn-on-the-cob in a pot of boiling water on the stove (as opposed to on the grill, which turned out to be an epic failure the last time), and in a twist of unfortunate circumstances, I splashed a smattering of boiling hot water on my right foot.
See, normally, when cooking, I wear socks and slippers so as to avoid the old stereotype of being “barefoot in the kitchen.” Last night, however, I had misplaced my slippers, so instead I donned only one thin pair of socks. When the boiling water came gushing down upon my tender little foot, you better believe my first thought was, “One more reason never to be caught ‘barefoot in the kitchen.'” {Actually, that was my second thought; my first thought was “SHIT!”}
I really can’t count the times my feet have been saved by a pair of slippers while in the kitchen. A lumbering oaf like me really doesn’t belong in la cuisine—it’s a miracle I still have my toes! Just last week, I dropped a butcher knife on the floor; the week before, I had a very close encounter with a tragic bit of eggshell; not long before that, I shattered a cup when it slipped out of my wet hands.
Perhaps a better bit of advice (better than “Don’t be caught barefoot in the kitchen”), is “Don’t allow clumsy idiots within ten feet of one.” A kitchen, that is.
Julia Child would not approve, I’m afraid. But the corn-on-the-cob was delicious—some of the best we’d ever eaten. Must have been the sacrifice of blood, sweat, and tears that made it so tasty. I wonder if that qualifies as a recipe? Step 1: Boil water. Step 2: Insert corn, plus a dash of blood, sweat, and tears {to taste}. The more you hurt, the better it will taste. Step 3: Enjoy, if possible.
After I’d gotten over the shock of my burned foot, we watched a movie and I soaked my foot in a tub of cool water (giving myself charlie horses in my calf because the bucket wasn’t big enough for my foot to rest flat {the charlie horses thereby reminding me of my high school volleyball days, which was disastrous [both the days themselves, and the remembrance of them]}). As I was sitting there with one freezing foot that was both numb and painful at the same time, it occurred to me that this must be what amputees feel like.
May we never know their suffering.
I always thought that if I were an amputee, I would be the bad kind. You know what I mean? There are good and bad amputees—the good ones get fitted with a prosthetic (or not) and go on to run marathons, climb mountains, and become poster girls for Roxy™.
Inspiring, the whole lot of them. Image from here.
The bad ones let their lives wither away to nothing until they one day wake up and find themselves in Arizona, sitting on the corner of a freeway exit holding a cardboard sign, mumbling to themselves about the good ol’ days.
I’d probably be that kind. I never have been very good at seeing the bright side of things, but I do try.
Anyway, as it happens, my blistered foot is turning out for the best. I don’t own a single pair of shoes that won’t irritate the battle wound, which means I have—at long last—a solid excuse to stay home, in bed if I want, because where would I go without shoes?
Nowhere near the kitchen, that’s for dang sure.
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