Sometimes, our self-imaged is marred by the reality of the events around us. For instance, I like to think that I know my way around the kitchen. I can, for instance time a meal, so that it makes it to the table at about the same time. It will be edible. And it will be nutritious or at least as nutritious as Finicky 1 & 2 will let it be.
I was pondering my completely and total excellence in kitchen domesticity, and was feeling rather self-congratulatory. Given the meal I was preparing, was a piece of cake. Acutally it was easier than cake. Grill up some Italian sausages, boil up the corn, and cut up some raw veggies. Table set, including mustard and butter. Still I was thinking... "Who out there rocks more than me? Move over Nigella Lawson, Nat, her ego and her kitchen are here to take over. "
Note the ego. That one always gets me into trouble.
What could possibly go wrong. I am woman hear me roar. I can bring home the bacon and cook it up in the pan. Note that we try to eat a healthy diet. Well, I do. As a result, bacon is not often served at this house. health. (Two weeks in NL aside, when the boy consumed at least three pigs worth of the stuff.) But back to my rockitude. I cranked up the live version of Ghost of Tom Joad with Tom Morello. "Highway is alive tonight... where it's headed everybody knows..." I definitely rock as much as those two, if not maybe a little bit more.
It was a very humble moment in my life.
Then I reached in to the cupboard to get a cutting board for the veggies. I wonder if Bruce ever cuts his own veggies. That's when the contents of the cupboards came crashing down up my hand and feet. I have seen this cupboard, it seems unlikely that given the position of everything -- that it should collapse onto me. But there it is -- the universe sending me a warning. Just like Jules and Vince not getting hit with any bullets in Pulp Fiction.
I moved to save my feet. (I am doing a half marathon in three weeks -- feet first. ) Catch the cutting board with my hand. Wow that hurt. Turn to get an onion -- that's when I noticed the blood. Somehow, although all the things in that cupboard are dull I have managed to take a small chunk out of my hand. "Hun.. can I have a bandaid. There's a hole in it -- just like Jesus'." He moves to take a look at my hand.
I show him my smallish wound. He gives me The Look. You know The Look. It means simply 'Woman, I love you and I care about you. But this barely qualifies as a wound. Suck it up." No sympathy. It's not even bleeding much. Maybe the Jesus thing was a bit much.
Still I rock, not quite as much as before. Maybe Bruce does rock more. And there is a good well-balanced meal cooking (oh hush I know sausages aren't even remotely nutritious). And I don't want to burn the sausage. (Given the chemical make-up of sausage, I'm not sure that it's possible to burn sausages.) I grab the tongs. We have these high-tech tong with a thingy to keep them closed. You need to pull it open them up. Simple process. Works well.
PINCH. Damn it now my index finger is bleeding too.
So maybe I don't rock nearly as much as Tom Morello either. The Meal, however, still got on the table in a timely fashion. So I am laying claim to still rocking a little bit.
