Let me start from the beginning. (and keep in mind, as a hint, typing this is quite a challenge right now)
I found a cooking class at Whole Foods that sounded fun. It was a class on making a variety of different burgers. Who doesn't love a burger, right? So we signed up with Debra and Alex.
The class schedule is as follows:
#1 - an awesome lamb burger. Yum.
#2 - a buffalo jucy lucy - obviously great.
#3 - ginger pork burger (I swear, I didn't even try the entire delicious thing and I did not enjoy it immensely)
#5 - Salmon burger. Thought I'd hate it, but it was actually quite good. My mom would like it.
#6 - homemade veggie burger. Fabulous
And my favorite of all?
I'm not even a cake person and this was delish!
I digress. Somewhere between #2 and #3 our instructor shared with us a little tip about cutting onions. It was a way to bisect them, and then chop them to get a better chop. Lovely! Brilliant! And this is when I decide that I am clearly a professional chef.
This morning, in an effort to use up extra tomatoes and basil from our garden, I decided to make a crock pot tomato sauce. How Martha Stewart of me, I know. I chop the tomatoes, done. I take out the onion. I chop it in half. My mind races back to the class and the exciting new 'technique'. I slice. I scream. Instead of just slicing the onion, I have now also taken off my finger. Well maybe not off, but it certainly felt that way. I looked at it, grabbed a towel and pressed. I swore, I screamed, and then swore some more.
If you know Jeremy, you know that you do not want to call him in a crisis unless it really is a crisis because he will make it a crisis. And this is why I love him, but this is also why I waited a while to call. Finally, I looked around and noticed my house looked like a war zone, with blood everywhere, and decided to make the call.
Kara: "Uh, Jer, I cut myself. I'm bleeding"
Jeremy: "Put on a band aid"
Kara: "Like soaking through the cloth towel bleeding"
Jeremy: "I'm on my way we're going to the ER"
And so he did. And 3 minutes later, the panic set in, and so did the pain. So I called my dad. He called my mom. And 10 minutes later my fleet of vehicles arrived to escort me to Abbott hospital at 7:30am.
I walked into the hospital with my bloody rag, looking like I'd been shot in the finger, and explained my story. I left out the part about the cooking class, feeling it was an unnecessary detail. However, it soon came out and the entire hospital came to look at, 'that girl that thought she was being cool'. Note to self: You have not been to cooking school, you have never worked in a restaurant, you're not even particularly coordinated, don't try 'special techniques'.
No worries, I asked each and every doctor and nurse that came to stare at the idiot, and I can still walk. Apparently smart moves like this do not hinder ones ability to walk 60 miles.
Feel free to send your pity in the form of a comment.