I am cooking, which is no great surprise. Hub is sitting on the couch, chatting with Son about guy things, such as but not limited to the A's game, sirloin steak, commuting and jock itch.
Note: I might be making up that last part, for dramatic effect.
I am preparing french toast bites. What they are is french toast, in bite-sized morsels, yes. So, I'm making a maple-egg custard to pour over the chopped up sourdough bread in muffin cups and the whatnot. And topping the bites with a pecan crumb coating, with additional maple syrup, on the side.
Note: The specifics of the recipe have nothing to do with the incident that I am reporting. I just think it sounds so delicious.
I am removing the crust from the sourdough bread. It is crusty. It is crusty, like an old sailor, yes. Or a pirate, even. It is difficult to remove the crust with my admittedly dull knives. But I am sawing and hacking and thinking little teeny swear words in my mind, maybe.
The knife slips from the crusty bread and skids across my knuckle. Dang it! I say and I throw the knife down which makes a loud noise on the granite, but I do not put the wounded appendage in my mouth to lick off the blood. I hate when people do that. I find it most distasteful. So I bleed on the countertop, like normal people.
Are you okay? Hub asks and he sounds concerned, even a little panicky. Did you cut yourself? I hear Son on the phone. Is Mom okay?
I am fine, I say through gritted teeth but I am seriously annoyed. I am so sick of my crummy knives. Everyone knows that my knives are crummy. Hub knows. Son knows. Heck, the paperboy knows.
There are lots of bandages in the cupboard, Hub is saying.
Note: Understatement.
Hub is bragging to Son about the great deal he got on about a million bandages at Costco.
Turns out that bandages are much cheaper than new knifes.
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