Our pasts have a way of writing themselves on our bodies. At least for me, that’s especially true of my hands.
For example, the scar on my right index finger? That’s from the Christmas party in 2005 when I nearly sliced off the tip with a bread knife. The mark on my right thumb? A lemon zester in 2011. The massive scar on my right palm comes from a 2013 run-in with a chef’s knife. And the jagged line on my left index finger owes it beginnings to an aluminum can and a batch of Sausage, Kale, and Tomato Soup in 2007.
That whole “pasts writing themselves on our bodies” thing isn’t as romantic as it first sounded, right?
Regardless, the soup was totally worth it.
That 2007 injury, in particular, stands out, because it’s the only one that ever sent me to the Emergency Room in the middle of a dinner party. Somewhere between browning the sausage and opening the cans of tomato sauce, I sliced my finger on the jagged edge of a can’s lid. At that point, like a good (albeit deranged) hostess, I wrapped my finger in gauze, held it aloft, and finished cooking the soup, dripping blood be damned.
Not until everyone was served, did I let my friend’s husband drive me to the hospital, leaving 20-plus adults and unknown numbers of children to enjoy their dinner in my living room.
Apparently, the soup was a rousing success. Two hours later, when I returned home with my eight stitches, my friends were still there, but the soup was gone.
I know…some friends.
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