December 30, 2005
The Boy makes really great chicken soup. It's the kind with the bubbles. The kind, as they say, Grandma used to make. I have been informed that the bubbles are just grease. I still like the bubbles. Probably because they are fattening bubbles full of greasy goodness.He doesn't skimp on chicken and I actually like the veggies he incorporates. He lets the soup to cook for a good amount of time which makes the veggies taste more like the chicken or the broth or the grease bubbles. Or all three. I don't know how to make chicken soup. I hear it's easy, though. I've also heard sewing isn't all that difficult but since I don't sew, I guess I'll never know.
Last night, as The Boy was busy chopping carrots and celery for the soup, I was playing some ridiculously mindless computer game. Naturally, I didn't want to be interrupted. But I heard The Boy rasp out a few sequential swear words and felt it best to inquire about the problem. He was holding his finger.
I know all about those deadly household items called knives. They seem to get me every time when I'm doing the dishes. Seeing as I don't cook, they always get me in the sink. And then, because the water is so hot, you don't even realize that you've cut yourself until the soapy water begins to produce pinkish colored bubbles and you suddenly realize that you're writhing in inimitable pain. Or you notice the blood running thinly down a glass that you just cleaned up and you begin to curse because you basically have to start all over again.
Well, that's usually how it happens to me anyway.
So The Boy was holding his finger and eying it closely. I got up and looked over his shoulder, almost puked and then ran to the closet for a band aid. Only problem with this situation was that I couldn't find the band aids. Two band aid boxes were empty while one contained only those small round bandaids that could probably make a difference if I were attending a tiny misquito bite (in the middle of winter), but such was obviously not the case. Finally, I found the bundle of band aids, on the opposite side of the closet from the band aid boxes, that were wrapped together with a rubber band. Nice.
I ran back to the kitchen and fumbled with the wrapper on the band aid. I am apparently terrible at unwrapping band aids. Probably didn't help that the band aid itself appeared to be pre-1920. Not that it had an expiration date on it, that I could tell, but one should consider buying new band aids as opposed to stealing the lot hidden underneath the tray of their father's tackle box that he hasn't used in ten years. You never know what kind of atmosphere those suckers have been exposed to, really. IF someone were to do that, that is.
The tip of The Boy's finger was bleeding and a nice chunk of his flesh was missing. "Mother Mode" must have kicked in because not one dry heave infiltrated my throat. Instead, I just placed the band aid over his finger and resume my ridiculously mindless computer game.
The Boy went on to prepare the chicken soup.
"So, I lost quite a big chunk of flesh from my finger," he said later, after we watched Mr. and Mrs. Smith.
"Yeah, thanks for reminding me," I shuddered.
"Mmmmmm. Smell that soup?"
"Ahhhh, yeah, so what exactly happened to that chunk of your finger anyway?"
He shrugged. Silence.
I looked at him.
"Well, you discarded it right?"
"Hmmmm, I dunno. It was on the cutting board. I think it was discarded with the carrot and celery ends," he replied.
"You think?!"
"It might be in the soup."
I stared at him. "What?"
He looked up at the ceiling and stated,
"So, if you eat even just the tip of my finger while you eat the soup, does that make you a cannibal?"
"WHAT?! What did you do with the finger?!?"
"It's not my whole finger, Laura. It's just a little piece of the tip," he replied calmly.
"SO!? I'm not gonna eat your finger or even 'just a little piece of it!'"
"I'm sure it's just like chick--"
"EW!"
"Cannibal."
"I am SO not eating that soup."
I wouldn't even touch the soup until he promised me that he had thrown the finger chunk away. He could have been lying. He could have just said that he threw it away so I wouldn't be afraid to eat it. I guess I'll never really know. The soup is good, though. Must be the bubbles.
Besides, I am German...