In the Garden

A long time ago, in a place called Athens, Georgia, grew a lone holly bush. It stood proud and tall, but alone, surrounded by lawn. Once, a rat snake, like a long, tar-black rope slithered past. The next year a box turtle dug her nest and laid her never-to-hatch eggs beside the bush. Then one overcast morning I decided...the holly bush just didn't belong. It had to go.


It all became so clear to me, and all I needed was a chainsaw. We didn't have one, but I was pretty certain our neighbor would loan his. Luck was with me and soon I was holding that saw. He showed me how to start her up and throttle the enginea bit. Ready for action, I eyeballed the bush from the side, the front, and the back. I needed a plan of attack given how thorny the holly was.


Let me stop a moment here to tell you that I still have all my limbs and digits. I was successful in cutting down the bush, but confess I didn't actually see it happen. The problem was a safety issue. I knew that eye protection is very important when using a saw. The chance of a limb kicking back and shooting out my eye was a serious concern. Without protective goggles it seemed very risky to move forward with my holly bush demolition.


The solution was obvious. I knew just where to cut so I started the engine, got into position, looked carefully at the targeted cut, aimed, closed my eyes, and cut!

Do Cars Kill?

Well it has been far too long since I have posted. We have moved from NY to MA. Started new jobs and new schools. Less danger? Not sure about that one.

I suspect trying to simultaneously talk on the cell (no headset), downshift, and hold my EZ-Pass up through the toll  (no Velcro stickies on the window) are not conducive to survival. That said, it was only once. I really do know better. The take-away here, I think, is that commuting increases the likelihood one will commit a serious error in judgment.

Garden Fresh!

My sister Nicole (Jill) with her doll
and me in my suit (1967ish)

My godmother was crazy, or so my parents tell me. I have no idea what ever happened to her, but I do know none of my siblings have godparents. Is this relevant to my story? I am not sure, but I suspect somehow it is, given what happened one lovely day in her garden.

My parents took Nicole (then Jill) and I to visit one afternoon. Nicole was too little, but I was a "big girl" and permitted to play outside with my godsister. We found our way to a huge vegetable garden and plunked ourselves down in the dirt. It was the mother-lode of food joy for me. Forget the sweet carrots. Skip the juicy cucumbers. From an early age I wanted onions, hot peppers, and horseradish. And here, in this garden, were fat, fresh onions. I wanted those.

While I sat munching on the onions still covered in rich dark crumbles of dirt, my friend was plucking fava beans fresh from the bush. After the onions I moved on to the fava beans. Clearly my friend's recommendations had swayed me. This was a good day for me. That didn't last, but you knew it wouldn't. We left my godmother's house. Next stop, the emergency room. I vaguely remember the hallway and someone rushing about. Stomach pump? Too late. The food was past my stomach. The only thing left was to take me home.

The worry was favism, or G6PD deficiency. Untreated and severe enough it leads to coma or death. It is a common deficiency in some parts of the world and is believed to protect against malaria, however there is one very specific food that must be avoided at all costs, fava beans (thus the name). My mother has G6PD as does my brother to some degree, but neither I, nor my sisters, have this (we may be carriers of course).

With death averted my parents were then free to quarantine me in my room. The favas were no longer an issue, but those onions were my downfall. According to my father the stench was unbearable. I took my meals on a folding TV tray for what seemed like days and days. Did any of this stop me? Nope. Less than a year later I was standing next to an Amish farmer just waiting for a taste of the fresh horseradish he was grating.

Better Than Bac-Os!

Mandoline photo from http://www.kitchenistadiaries.com

This is a mandoline. According to Wikipedia "The item being sliced is normally held in a carrier to protect the cook's fingers." Notice that Martha Stewart's example in this picture shows a delicate grip, sans "carrier", grasping the cucumber. It looks easy and Martha even provides advice on other grips to use depending upon the size and shape of the food to be sliced.

My mandoline looked like this one and had a round, toothed carrier, kind of like an upside down plastic bed of nails. You just plunge it into the carrot, potato, or cabbage and you have an instant "handle' on your food. The point of course, is to keep all digits clear of the blade. It makes sense to have one, and even more sense to use one. But, I didn't.

Dinner was cooking and a salad was needed. What Joe got that night was neither sirloin tips nor asparagus tips. Finger tips were the blue plate special. 

Well, really, just one finger tip. My left ring finger tip (is there any irony in that?). It turns out that fingers are highly vascularized. You'd have thought I hit a main artery.  Nausea comes quickly in these cases. I refused to look. Half my finger had been cut off... Joe was going to have to bandage it and locate the missing piece. I sat down on the toilet, turned away, and held out my hand. Joe removed the paper towels, cleaned the finger, and carefully bandaged it. The trauma was too much for me so I lay down while Joe went to retrieve the finger tip from the salad. 

The next day I called in sick explaining that I had cut off a chunk of my finger. When I returned to work at Whitman Middle School, students stopped me in the hall. "Hey Mrs. G! Let's see your finger!" I held up the bandaged hand and put on a brave face.

Several bandages later Joe convinced me to look. I was prepared to find a flattened fingertip. Yes, I sliced my finger. Yes, I thought, I can live without a fingertip. I was ready. But the chunk I had imagined, the chunk that Joe picked from the salad, the chunk he recklessly tossed in the garbage.... that piece was no bigger than a grain of rice.

Forget About Tongue Lashings!

How is it possible that one person can:

1. Bite her inner lip while talking and eating at the same time
2. Bite her tongue while sleeping and have blood dripping down her chin
3. Trip over her own pant legs while walking upstairs

All in one (1) day?

Eat Pie with a Spoon

I shoveled pecan pie into my mouth. Enjoying every forkful that made it to my mouth and regretting every bit that fell into the sink. Made from scratch, it was good. Crunchy, gooey inside, tons of whole pecans on top, buttery crust, toasty, nutty, yummy. Irresistible really.

Why I was hurrying, I can't recall, but I suspect my goal was to eat as much pie as possible before Joe could show up and want some as well. I was really protective of my pecan pie (okay... maybe greedy is the word). Unfortunately, in my hurry I managed to stab myself with the fork. Where you ask? If I had stabbed my arm, hand, or even neck I would have been okay with that. But no. I speared the roof of my mouth with a fork. It is hard to understand how this happened and the mechanics of it all seem to be blocked from my memory.

No more pie that day. My mouth really hurt, but I knew from having bitten my cheeks (everyone does that, right?) that my mouth would soon recover.  My theory was that mouths heal quickly so that we don't suffer pain when trying to eat and then starve (its a survival of the well-fed theory). I was wrong.

Two days later the pain was worse. By angling my head just right, holding a mirror in one hand, and bending under a light I could see that what began as four little puncture wounds had become a huge, gross, white patch, surrounded with red. Ugh.

A visit to student health, a pathetic attempt to explain how I had injured the roof of my mouth in the first place, and then a bottle of mega-dose antibiotics. All would be good again. But not really. I don't think I have baked a pecan pie since then. And every once in a while, I swear, I still feel twinges of pain on my upper palate.







 

At the first sign of danger...

Welcome to my blog A Danger to Herself. The name comes from my husband's honest belief that I am a danger to myself. Who can say why. Instead of trying to solve this great mystery of my life, I will simply share my stories. Hope you enjoy.