I just spent the last hour in the late outpatient/emergency room in Hong Kong Central Hospital. Luckily for me, it is within walking distance of my apartment. Here’s what happened:
I decide that I want to make a cheesecake. Not just any cheesecake, but Key Lime cheesecake. So, I get out my ingredients and I’m hard at work, when I suddenly forget everything that has been taught to me about knives.
In case you didn’t know, you are not supposed to use knives unless you have an appropriate cutting surface on which to cut. Also, you are supposed to use an appropriate knife for what you are cutting. Most importantly, never let your fingers get into the way of the blade and never, never, EVER, under any circumstances, cut something in your hand.
Guess which of these I ignored?
If you guessed “all of the above” – you are correct.
Because I didn’t want to have another thing to clean, I decided to cut the cream cheese into cubes in the palm of my hand. Then, I chose a serrated (sp?) steak knife for the purpose.
Can you guess what comes next?
If you guessed “slice your finger/hand off” – you are correct.
Basically, my hand slipped. The next thing I know my hand is auto-flinging itself back from the knife and blood is spilling over the white cream cheese and the floor and I am screaming. Then, I start hysterically laughing. For those of you who have never seen me in a crisis, my modus operandi is laughing. It’s how I get through things.
So, I giggle my way down to the ER and by the time I get there, the wad of paper towels surrounding my left hand are soaked. The nurse behind the desk takes one look at me and I’m ushered into a room where they stop the bleeding and give me a good look at the damage.
Stuff is not supposed to come out from behind your skin, people, it’s just not. My left pinky finger was just about sawed in two at the middle joint. Those steak knives were worth their money, I guess.
The doctor proceeds to tell me that because it’s a joint, it’s the pinky and the slicing action was smooth, I would be better off without stitches. Because, he tells me, he could do more damage with stitches. I can bend my finger, so nothing too serious has been done.
I tell him in Chinese that I am a silly melon (a jackass) and that I don’t have good meaning (I am embarrassed). He gives me a look. It’s somehow comforting that “the look” is universal for disappointment and “didn’t you know better”. Then he has the nurse patch me up with butterfly stitches, uses a wooden stick to stabilize my finger and bandages me up. Then he tells me to take antibiotics – just in case of infection and not to use my left hand for anything and not get it wet for a week. Then we’ll see.
Great.
I think that this proves my point about me learning lessons the hard way. I think my mother, my grandmother, my aunts – everybody I ever cooked with – admonished me not to cut something while holding it. I always thought, “What’s the big deal?” One chunk of pinky finger less and my first HK ER experience later, I now know what the big deal is.
And I am a silly melon.
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