My kitchen wants me dead, and I've never been prouder
When I first volunteered to take over the weekly food column from longtime Daily Journal Food Editor Ginna Parsons, my central conceit — the gag, if you will — for the column was my lack of skill in the kitchen.
“People will love laughing at my pain and misery,” I likely told myself at some point. Probably out loud. I do a lot of that. It’s also possible I gave myself a high-five.
Over the past few months, not only have I prepared some fairly delicious meals — at least by my low standards — but I’ve developed some overall competence in the kitchen. My knife skills are improving; I’ve learned to finish skillet-cooked chicken in the oven; and I now know that scallions are just green onions for pompous people. I may make a fair to middling chef yet.
It seems my kitchen has taken notice of the increased time I’m spending within it, watched as I’ve grown more confident in my ability to gauge when a burger is properly cooked or dice an onion without looking like I’d just finished watching Artax go swimming in the Swamp of Sadness, and has decided to test my mettle.
I can respect that.
You see, though I’ve never been on to enjoy physical or mental toil, I’ve also consumed enough media over my 40-something years to know these kinds of tests are a necessary step along a hero’s journey. Luke faces his inner demons in the belly of the Dark Side Cave on Dagobah; Paul Atreides must keep his hand inside the Pain Box lest he wants Bene Gesserit to perform acupuncture on his throat; and the Muppets must face off against the villainous assassin Snake Walker if they ever want to make it to Hollywood. These were all critical junctures in their quests.
Last night, I faced mine.
As I cooked a modified version of a dish I’ve written about previously, Cajun Sausage and Rice Skillet, the handle of my plastic spatula crept too close to the burner, undoubtedly moved by my kitchen’s innate ability to shift things around when I’m not looking. The position of my cast-iron skillet, however, hid this fact from me, although I took immediate notice when I grabbed the utensil and felt a burst of searing pain as plastic fused with flesh.
As most of us do when our delicate skin comes into sudden contact with something extremely hot, I immediately sought the relief of cold water. Unfortunately, my kitchen had foreseen this, clever room that it is, and ensured the water sitting in the pipes below my sink was still scalding hot from the batch of dishes I had been washing.
With a small child in the next room, I tried to keep my tormented wailing as PG as I could. Not that it would have mattered. Arlie was apparently so engrossed in her current Roblox session that my cries of agony barely registered.
“Did you say something, Daddy?” she asked from two rooms over.
“No, Arlie,” I said between gritted teeth. “I was just hollering because I hurt myself.”
“OK!”
Relief came as soon as the stream of water cooled. The hunk of plastic that had briefly melded with the palm of my hand fell away, leaving behind a newborn blister the size of my thumb. A day later, the thing has bubbled up like the backside of a waterlogged gremlin. On the bright side, if I ever need to verify that I’m still alive and capable of suffering, all I have to do is brush my palm against absolutely anything at all.
On the even brighter side, this injury ushers me even closer to mastery of the culinary arts. Or, at least as close as I’ll get.
“But, Adam,” you’re no doubt saying. “What makes you believe this mishap represents some kind of trial by fire rather than just simple stupidity?”
It’s a fair question, hypothetical reader. While the bulging blister currently causing me grief almost certainly points more to my clumsiness than growing skill, I choose to believe every stumble along the path still brings me closer to wherever it is I’m going. It’s not until I stop injuring myself with kitchen utensils that I have truly failed.
Besides, I know how much you love laughing at my pain and misery.
