Don't attempt to think up a post for your blog while you're making lunch. One of your ideas may just come true and/or revisit you.
One of my trains of thought was about a certain sister who, without premeditated malice, was the catalyst on two separate occasions for my receiving two substantial wounds. One happened when we lived in a random town in New Hampshire (ask another family member where it was, I don't remember, heh). She asked me to go to the basement to get something for her because, as she later admitted, she didn't want to do it herself. So I, like a good sister, started to make my way down the stairs. Part way down there was a landing on which were a couple bags of trash waiting to be taken to the can outside. In my hurry, I stepped on the corner of one of those bags and met up with a tin can which had been improperly opened (I think she said she was the one who did it... or was it me? I don't remember, but I'll say it was her because it makes for a better story), leaving the top edge perfectly suited for making crecent-shaped cuts on the bottom of bare feet. Weeee!
I remember sitting in the back of the van as my mum drove me to the doctor to get stitched up, with a towel wrapped around my foot. Then in the waiting room... then laying on the doctor's table while he took a needle and stuck it into the wound to numb it before he stitched it up. I wanted to watch, because I thought it was cool. My mum sat in the corner on a chair and felt a little green while she watched someone stick sharp objects in my foot. After I was all put back together, I was sent home with a pair of crutches. I was thrilled! What could be more fun than having to use crutches? Besides, I got more attention that way. I was a weird little kid. I still have the scar, too.
The second event was far less riveting. The previously mentioned sister had broken a mirror by accident. She'd cleaned up the mess and put it in the trash can (what is it with me, trash and sharp objects?). Later that day I stepped up next to the can on my way to do something else and my calf came down on a large shard of mirror that was protruding from the top of the can. Slice. Blood. And a laughing recount of aforementioned story. The end.
So, as I was making lunch for the Bible School students today, I considered this pair of stories as blog fodder, but rejected them as not interesting enough on their own and also because I didn't really want to shed a shadow on any of my sister's reputations. But then something happened to change my mind (sorry, Sister! *grins*).
I was running a little behind in time, so I hurried from the cooler with a two quart jar of apple sauce, shaking it back and forth to mix the thinner sauce at the bottom of the jar with the thicker at the top. I headed around the counter on my way to grab a bowl when it happened. The jar slipped from my grasp and shattered as it hit the edge of the counter. Apple sauce and glass everywhere! Including a fair portion on my *blush* not-wearing-shoes-in-the-kitchen!-stockinged foot and down the front of my skirt. There was a shocked silence (which wasn't surprising, seeing as how I was the only person in the kitchen at the time), and then I let the residual shards of glass left in my hands drop onto the counter. If that jar had been about two inches to the left, I would have included the noun 'blood' in with the "Apple sauce and glass... !"
But, thank God, all I had to clean up was two quarts of apple sauce, mixed with hidden shards of glass, from the counter, down the front of the cupboard and dribbled into a cold, gooey puddle on the floor. Yum.
So, like I said at the beginning, don't dream up blogs while you cook lunch. Your chances of getting a vital appendage cut off increase sharply.
Day-old Delaware Chickens
10 years ago