Cooking can be perilous.
The kitchen can be a gruesome, sadistic, house of pain.
Knives, graters, hot oil… And, electric planers…
Warning: Put down your sandwich, the following story may be offensive to some readers and will certainly turn you off your lunch.
It started like most ordinary Sunday’s in the May Family abode.
Nothing to suggest that this day, was unlike any other lazy Sunday before it.
After rising around 9am, I made my popular Buttermilk Pancakes for the still sleeping masses, and then called them all to the table.
My sister Cerrita, and our niece Inez, were visiting from Brisbane. They spontaniously stopped in on their way home from Bali. An impromptu event that turned out to be my saving grace… But, more about that later…
Watching my family enjoy breakfast as I stood back and chugged my morning latte, I decided this was a day of rest. I felt absolutely no desire to hurry and get dressed.
I was spending my entire day, robe clad at the stove, I’d likely just shower and change my pyjama’s later, when I could be bothered…
After breakfast, we all separated to our own personal, relaxation stations.
I retreated to the kitchen, flitting around in my dressing gown, while I began a Sweet Potato Fritatta for lunch.
Rita was on a couch, reading my unstarted copy of Kitchen Confidential.
Cory was on the other couch, scrolling through his Ipad.
Our 3 girls were happily together in Eden’s bedroom, playing with her doll house and singing Taylor Swift.
After a while, Cory hopped up, and silently dissapeared to his shed.
This was nothing notable, being his usual weekend routine. Between Cory’s motorbikes and power tools, this corrogated man cave, is his Nirvana. His sanctuary away, from a house full of females.
Meanwhile, Cerrita still lay in the loungeroom, randomly yelling out important Anthony Bourdain plotpoints, while I pleaded with her to shut the hell up and stop ruining the book for me.
I could hear the girls giggling and warbling Shake it off in their little cherub voices, and I was still in the kitchen, now making a batch of Granola.
All was good and right with the world, until…
Suddenly from outside, I heard my name bellowed in a panic.
Like a ferocious Sonic Boom, the front door kicked wide open, and Cory shot in, one massive hand, wrapped protectively around the other.
Blood, Fear and Shock all rolled into one.
Wide eyed, I rushed to his side and I heard the ominous words I dreaded to hear…
“I need you to take me to Hospital”
Let me quickly explain why (apart from the obvious) these words were absolute terror to my ears…
Firstly, and shamefully, I was still in my PJ’s and it was now after lunch. I was immediately flooded with cringe inducing images of myself in the ER, skipping around in my nighty and fanatically screeching for help, while bored waiting room onlookers sniggered about the MKR mum’s mental meltdown and posted photos of me on the internet.
Secondly, and more importantly. Cory is a Roofer. He works in a very hazardous industry. He works with sheet metal and sharp tools. He routinely returns home with large gashes bonded together with gaffa tape, while ignoring my pleas for immediate medical attention. He will only seek out a doctor, if it’s really, really bad.
Enter, divine sisterly intervention.
Cerrita hastily launched from the couch. We both already knew that I couldn’t take him.
My incarceration in the psychiatric ward would be a certainty due to my pyjama clad body and Veronica Crabtree hair.
Note to everyone: Learn from my mistake, don’t EVER stay in your PJ’s after midday. You never know when somebody will require an immediate escort to the ER.
I heard myself screaming as they bolted to the car… Is it off, did you cut it off AAAARGHHHHHH?!!!
Rita hustled like the Stig and quickly delivered Cory to the Hospital, while the unthinkable pain of a hacked up pressure point, began to overtake his body.
After their frenetic departure, there was stillness and eeire silence in the house.
Still unsure of my husbands injuries, I waited, stomach in my mouth, for the news.
I didn’t dare visit the scene of the crime. I was fearful of the sight that might await me.
Was it 1 finger… Or, 4? A Bandsaw? A Dropsaw? A Jigsaw?
I finally, after what seemed like an eternity, received the heart stopping call from my sister.
Her words, began echoing in my ears;
Poooooor Cory. He was cutting wood chips for the smoker, because he wanted to make smoked cream. He thought it might be nice for you to make an Icecream out of it for our dessert…dessert…dessert…dessert…
He picked up the still spinning electric planer after chipping his last chip, and hideously severed the entire pad off of his mighty index finger… finger… finger… finger…
Now, finally showered and dressed, I quickly tag teamed down to the ER.
When I saw the damage, tears welled in my eyes and vomit water welled in my mouth.
It was a gaping, diagonal cylinder, right down to the bone.
It needed a Plastic surgeon.
It needed a skin graft.
It was every single nerve ending, disected in an instant.
It was gonna be a painful experience, for us all… Injured Cory = Pain in my ass.
Later, upon returning home, Cory collected the remnants of his lost extremity. What was once an important part of a proud and noble finger, was now meaty shredded wheat, lying on the bloodied shed floor.
His fingerprint-less digit has lost it’s innocence.
Forever a casualty, in mankinds war against the machines.
Planer: 1 / Pointer Finger: Nil
Anyhoo, ever the trooper (and doped up on Endone), he did smoke that cream… That very night.
And, I did make his Icecream.
And, we freakin’ loved it.
And, in the end, was it all worth it…? Try this delectable recipe for yourself, and you be the judge.
Until next week xxx
Recipe: Smoked Cream
These recipes were inspired by a post from the talented folk at http://www.seriouseats.com/