You probably are aware, Gentle Readers, that as a cook, I make an excellent knitter. I make it a firm policy to snivel loudly and regularly about how I hate to go into the Room Where We Keep the Beer, with any other purpose but retrieving one. This policy, while providing me with some form of release, has not actually saved me from any cooking duty. Not even once.
So on Saturday night, when it was time to make soup for dinner, I dutifully reported to the scullery. Lindsay had two little girlfriends over for a slumber party. Phillip and Campbell were watching a football game. And I had a date with a pile of leeks. And an 8" Chef's knife, which I'm proud to announce, I keep very, very sharp. While I don't understand food, I do understand tools, and I've always felt that a dull knife, in addition to being miserable to operate, is actually more dangerous than a sharp one. So I'm pretty zealous with the stone and the steel. I've wondered if my cutlery compulsions are really some past life experience intruding upon this one; maybe I was once a fierce warrior, and the need to keep my sword sharp is some kind of holdover. Whatever the reason, my knives hold an edge that could shave a damsel's legs. Or make short work of a pile of leeks.
Or, as it happens, the end of my left thumb. I have no idea how I did it. One minute I was carefully chopping leeks, the next, I had become a super-gross human fountain. Ever mindful of stuff I need my hands for (like making a living), I was more than a little panicky when the fountain hadn't stopped after a reasonable amount of time. It occurred to me that this might be one of those go-to-the-doctor times, just in case a stitch or two were needed. But I had a house full of children, some of whom were not my own, and leaving them alone (and without soup!) seemed irresponsible. So Phillip stepped up and finished the soup, while keeping an eye on the slumber party (and the game, too, I assume), and I took myself to the ER.
As ER visits go, I really couldn't have had a better time. It was a rare quiet night at the hospital, and I was in and out in under an hour. A nice lady doctor did things I couldn't watch to my thumb in order to ascertain and repair the damage. Then a lovely nurse came and put on bandages. KNITTED bandages, as it turned out, which I noted with interest. The action part of the dressing setup involved a KNITTED TUBE, which held all the gauze, etc. in place. Once that was on, my clever nurse SLICED THE TUBE OPEN (sound familiar, steek-happy knitters?), in order to use its ends to secure the whole rig to my hand. Sexy! Knitting is everywhere, Gentle Readers, and it is always Good.
I'm all patched up, and assured the damage is not permanent. The extreme sharpness of the blade, I'm told, will actually make for faster healing. The downside is that I'm under orders to stay off it for three days. So no Hitchhiking. And no thumb-wrestling. And no Knitting.
For Three Days.
My family is twitchy about what it's going to be like for them if I can't knit. They should be.
Here's the Thistle Stole I would like to be working on:
Paisley has appointed herself its guardian, and is watching over it very carefully:
I'm sure I'll be fine without knitting. I mean, it's only for three days. There have been plenty of times when I couldn't knit. I'm sure there must have. Though none are leaping to mind.
Phillip is seriously concerned that I'll have to be tied to a chair before it's over. He may be right. Please submit suggestions for what I can do with myself for three days that doesn't require the use of my left thumb.