They say that you can tell if someone is a real chef by looking at their hands: hard core chefs’ hands are covered with scars, cuts, and burns.
Yesterday, while dicing onions, I sliced a dime-sized chunk off of my thumb, by the knuckle. The wound keeps bleeding through bandaids, so there are little smears of blood all over my laptop. That is exactly as creepy as it sounds.
This new cut matches nicely the bulging red scar from my last run-in with a knife. I am proud to report, though, that last night’s mishap with the chef’s knife did not deter me from finishing the overly-elaborate dinner I’d planned for last night’s book club meeting. I just wrapped it in a bunch of bandaids and continued chopping.
I’m choosing to believe that this latest battle scar is evidence that I am a hard core chef, rather than draw the more-obvious conclusion that I am a huge effing klutz.