Pound of Flesh

I committed the cardinal sin of the kitchen last night. I let my attention stray while chopping garlic.

Slice.

My zucchini was a-sizzlin’ in the pan, someone had The Simpsons on way too loud, and I was thinking about my window of opportunity to get some potatoes in with the roasting chicken. I was slicing faster than I should have been and I didn’t have the requisite finger curl working for me.

When you hold something you’re cutting, your fingers should be curled under so the blade of the knife can slide against the flat middle section of your fingers. It’s Knife Handling 101 in a professional kitchen.

But garlic is so small and wiley, it doesn’t like to be pinned clumsily under fat, curled fingers. It prefers to skit around the chopping block. I tend to use my finger nails to hold it.

First clove down and pushed aside, I was in the middle of the second clove when I looked up at the clock to calculate my timing.

Slice.

My favorite knife took a slight chunk of my left index finger, including a sweet section of fingernail. Any time I thought I was saving by rushing was squandered by trying to find a clean towel and cursing myself under my breath.

Worse yet, I had to toss the already chopped garlic and start fresh, with a throbbing, thickly wrapped finger. With a little help, I managed to get the whole dinner to table in good time, nothing scorched except my ego. I’m supposed to be smarter than the knife.

I’ve seen all sorts of line cooks chop sections of their hands or burn swaths of skin, most of them pissed they have to leave the line. It is rather surprising when some of the gnarlier ones get the woozy sway going at the sight of their own blood.

Typing this entry with my cartoon-sized gauzed finger hasn’t been the most fun. I don’t mind kitchen scars, they don’t handicap me, but they do humble me. Tonight dinner may be late.