A few weeks ago I was using one of my favorite knives in the kitchen which had just come back from being professionally sharpened. I love this knife and it had a razor edge on it. Mr. Moon, handing it over to me when he brought it home from the kitchen supply store where it had been sharpened said, "Don't show me if you cut yourself."
I scoffed, as one does. Who me? Cut myself?
Okay, okay, it has happened before. What person who has spent any real time in a kitchen hasn't got a knife or burn scar or two? It's practically a badge of honor.
Still, I was not expecting to do what I did the very night the knife was back in my kitchen. I'd made supper, we'd eaten, and I was cleaning up when the I picked up the knife from the cutting board (not the knife you see above) and it slipped out of my hand, fell to the floor, and stabbed my leg just above the ankle on its way down.
I have no idea how that was even possible. And yet- there I was, shocked and with a rather gaping knife wound in my leg that was just starting to fill with blood. I had a band-aid stretched tightly across that thing in seconds because not unlike Mr. Moon, I did not want to see it either. Later on that night I put some of that liquid bandage super glue on it and realized that if I was a normal human, I'd probably get stitches. It wasn't a long cut, but a deep one.
It's still not quite healed.
Anyway, today I chopped one of our large sweet potatoes to go into the creamy cashew butternut squash soup that I love so much. I always add sweet potatoes to it and with our nice huge garden ones, one will do for sure. I did not cut myself. The kitchen smells delicious because the soup has all the good spices in it- cumin and turmeric, coriander and fresh grated ginger, curry powder, (sorry Boud, I buy mine, I don't make it), onions and garlic, too, of course. The vegetables have all cooked to tenderness and now all I have to do is puree them and the cashews and add the coconut milk.
My first alone night's supper.
I made a big breakfast this morning for the hunter who was about to get on the road. He had joked about me making him biscuits this morning and so I did. He didn't even give me his usual, "Oh, I'll just eat cereal," comment. He really did want those biscuits. We ate our breakfast on the porch and I held my hand on his knee as we ate. I'm going to miss that guy.
And he's off and here I am with my soup and my cats. Dang Maurice has already displayed her displeasure at his leaving by biting my hand. She is NOT happy. Mr. Moon has become hers, as far as she is concerned.
"You little bitch," I told her as she bolted off the table.
I did not mean to speak to her that way. It just came out. I do feel, however, that it was not an inappropriate thing to say under the circumstances.
Back in the olden days, when Mr. Moon would go off hunting and I had small children at home, it was not unusual for me to take the kids to the animal shelter to get another kitten to love. This was a very passive-aggressive act on my part, I admit. I am older and wiser and more placid now and do not feel the need to do things that say, "Well, I'll show him!"
Ha! He showed me by tolerating every cat I brought into the house. Perhaps not with great joy but grudging acceptance and eventual true sweetness.