Got a finger cutting story? It seems we all do. A good way to hear those stories is to cut your own. Someone I know, let's call her Sherin, has recently had a culinary accident...
The sun had set only a couple hours ago but the dark cold night had soon crept in. The smell of the pork which had been marinating in mexican spices all day had now snuck into the room with vigor. It was going to be an exciting meal indeed.
Everything was in it's place. Everything, accept for the salad. "I must add cucumber" she thought while tossing the tomatoes onto a bed of greens. Hoping there was enough time, she dashed to the refrigerator, went to the bottom drawer, found the bag, pulled out the vegetable and began to prep the keystone ingredient. Fruition was near.
The knife. The knife. Where was the... oh yes, in the sink still dirty from the pig. It will need to be washed. Yes, washed and cleaned for the cucumber. A little soap, a little water, no time to dry. It must be cut, now.
She held up the new chef knife, it glistened in the light for a moment as water dripped from the eight inch blade. Mr. Henckles was a proud addition to the family. Slice. Slice. Must hurry. Everything was almost ready and soon there would be a culinary berrage, timers, slice, appliances, slice, dishes, slice, food all needing attention at the same time. Slice.
The last slice deserved a moment of pause. Something unusual. Perhaps it was the texture that was bit off or maybe it was the length of slice. Something was different, something subtle, something odd.
There, on the cutting board before her, lay her own appendage. Well, part of an appendage. The right corner of her left index finger to be exact. It was odd to see it there. Attached to nothing else. You could see finger print groves. Not that this should be strange, but you've never seen them so defined before, and there was the fingernail. It seemed odd that you could identify the clear and shiny nail polish on it. You had to look at her other fingers just to be sure it was on the rest. Why would she only paint that nail? It must be on the rest. It was. There was no blood, not on the cutting board - the blood filled the sink. She barely stood there, pale with disbelief.
"Mr. Henckles, what have you done?", I thought. But Mr. Henckles did what he has always done and he does it without discrimination. Yes, you have to admire him for that. He now lay there faultless, without awe.
It was at that moment when the fear and the sadness hits you, the images fast forward through your mind, you try to make sense of it all, try to understand. Then you realize. There will be no mexican dinner tonight.
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