Yesterday afternoon, my parents and Little S and her boyfriend came over to have dinner with T and me.  In anticipation of their arrivals, T and I did some tidying up around the house.  T started in the kitchen as I was proof reading an article for my dad.  After I finished, I decided to start cleaning the guest bathroom since T seemed to have the kitchen under control.

I was elbow deep in bubbles and foam cleaning the sink, when I heard a scream from T and the sound of something metal clanking to the floor.  I rinsed off and headed towards the kitchen.  F-bombs were being thrown violently about.  I noticed T hunched over the sink with blood running down his hand, and I saw our giant butcher knife on the floor.  He was freaking out and wouldn’t say what had happened.

I went over to the sink and saw a decent sized gash on his index finger.  He was still bleeding, so I told him to hold his hand up in the air to stop the blood flow.  Then we bandaged it up with some paper towels until it was safe to put a band-aid on it. He was still twitching and flailing around from the pain, but he was finally able to tell me what happened.  He had just washed the knife, and was drying it off when the blade cut through the towel and his finger.  I don’t know what possessed him to dry it sharp side down.  He ended up being fine.  I don’t think he needs stitches or anything.

Later that day as I was cooking the most awesome chicken tacos ever, I decided to season our new skillet so we could start using it.  I’d put it in the oven for a bit to dry it off, but then forgot about it.  About 5 minutes later I realized that it was in there, so I grabbed it out.  While it was hot, I poured some oil in it.  I decided I needed to swirl the pan around to distribute it, so I picked it up with my one oven-mitted hand, then grabbed it with my other unmitted hand because the thing weighs a ton.  Of course, part of my pinkie finger missed the glove, and I grabbed onto the searing metal.  That was fun!  I had to remember not to throw the hot pan down because it would shatter my ceramic stove top.  An ice cube later, I was back in business and continuing to cook.

Note when seasoning a skillet, use a brush to spread the oil.  It won’t cause you as much pain!

None the less, T and I both survived our kitchen injuries.  But I do want to say there is a noticeable difference between when a guy gets hurt and a girl.  T ranted and raved, bounced and hopped, and screamed for about 10 minutes before he calmed down.  I just yelled out once, said a few bad words, and went on my merry little way.  The same thing happens when my mom or dad gets hurt.  She stays calm, and he freaks out.

Is it the same in your house?