Clash of the phobias

I can’t stand the sight of blood.  It was no fun, therefore, when I sliced the tip of my thumb off while preparing a roast for the slow cooker (or, to be more accurate, preparing the onions to go into the slow cooker with the roast).  It turned out not to be a serious cut, but I was worried that I would need stitches and, of course, I bled like a stuck pig.  Immediately upon cutting myself, I swathed my thumb in a paper towel, put pressure on it.  I then called my husband to look at it and assess the damage.  (See, that’s my phobia — I was afraid to examine it myself.)

My husband duly admired the cut and told me it wasn’t serious.  Nevertheless, since I was still bleeding, I still needed to keep the pressure on my thumb — something that took my right hand pretty much out of commission.  Since I was cooking time-sensitive food, and was in the middle of doing so, I asked my husband for a hand with the cooking, and that’s where his phobia arose.  My husband absolutely will not do any food preparation.  I eventually bullied him into turning over the roast (which I had searing in a pan preparatory to putting it in the slow cooker), but he immediately vanished after that.  He gets as squeamish around a stove top as I do around a bleeding wound.

All is well now.  I managed all right with one and a half hands, and I have to say that the pot roast smells divine.  I expect to dine well tonight and, considering the carpooling frenzy this afternoon will see, it will be wonderful to have dinner waiting at the end of it all.

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  • suek

    Ok…the Golf Widow’s Pot Roast…

    1 pot roast – size pretty much whatever size you want
    1 pkg of Lipton’s instant onion soup
    1 can Cream of Mushroom soup (concentrated)

    A _big_ piece of aluminum foil (so you also don’t have to clean up afterwards)

    Line a 9 x 13 pan with the foil. There should be lots of overlap, all 4 sides. Put roast in the center, add the pkg of dry soup, then the can of mushroom soup. Pull sides together and double fold them down so the whole thing is a tight package. Bake at 275* to 300* for 3-4 hours. Or more if you have a large roast. About 45 minutes to 1 hour per lb. Gravy is in the pan/foil. You get about 2-3 cups of gravy.

    If you want veggies, add them to the pan an hour or so before you plan to eat, but they’ll be dry roasted.

    You probably already have this – it’s pretty well known…but just in case. We can’t have you chopping off your fingertips – it’ll impede your blogging!

  • rockdalian

    Next time reach into the freezer and get some ice. Wrap the ice in a paper towel and apply.

  • Bookworm

    That, rockdalian, would have involved unwrapping the paper towel I had pressed tightly on the wound in the first place. Good chance of fainting once I do that.

  • 11B40


    My name is 11B40 and I am a kitchenphobic.

    I have been living with this condition for over fifty years since my beloved mother banished me, for all time, from her beloved kitchen. Due to that trauma, I have been unable to develop or maintain an unthreatening relationship with any of the many kitchens I have had access to since that time.

    Needless to say, this condition has effected all of my relationships with women except for my big sister who has banished me from her life, for all time, because, you guessed it, my mother banished me, for all time, from her beloved kitchen.
    I have been desperately trying to overcome my fear in order to have a relationship of true equality with a women, but nothing seems to work.

    I have sought out an experienced therapist, but they always say my condition doesn’t exist, that it’s not in their Diagnostic Manual, whatever that is. I have become paranoid that they are trying to drive me over the edge or into the garbage disposal. One even told me that it’s like homosexuality, it’s just not in their book. And, if it’s not in their book, then there are no instructions on how to cure it.

    I find myself slipping into a life of growing dependency. My dinner has to be brought to me in my Lazy Boy, along with my beer. My dishes are taken away and I never have the opportunity to experience the sense of accomplishment that others enjoy from washing them until they shine. My patience is used up waiting for drinks and snacks. Being home alone can only be compared to time at Abu Gharib. I couldn’t recognize a stove if one fell on my head.

    So, I am trying to reach out to find other kitchenphobics. My mother looked liked other mothers and acted like other mothers some of the time, so I’m sure there must be others out there who suffer like I do. If we can get in touch and organized, (you know, the support group thing) maybe we help each other and publicize our affliction. Who knows, maybe we can even get Social Security to recognize it as the permanent, compensable disability that it should be.

    Obviously, my big sister very much disagrees. In spite of her direct and catastrophic involvement in the etiology of my disability, she insists that it is nothing more than my juvenile fixation on the First Law of Delegation. You know, delegate all things people do better than you.

  • Bookworm


    As with so many phobias, sometimes you just have to confront your fear. Start small, by emptying a dishwasher. Then, perhaps, set a table. Before you know it, you’ll be mastering pots and pans (both for cooking and cleaning) with the best of them!

  • Ymarsakar

    I was once trying to cut one of those plastic pop sickles full of artificial juice inside of it open with a razor sharp knife. It miscalculated the amount of force I needed to use and it cut through the sealed top of the soft plastic and into my left index finger, just to the right of the fingernail there. It was about 1 milimeter away from separating a fold of tissue that had the length of 3 mms off from my finger. I can still see the scar tissue now, even though it was years ago.

    I wrapped a paper something on top of that finger, but not because I was afraid of blood, but because I was afraid that if that part of my finger slipped off somewhere, I would never be able to reattach it. It was only after I looked at the wound that I knew for a fact that the tissue was still attached to my finger and had a high chance of growing re-attached to it. I was using the blood, so to speak, as a glue to hold it together along with pressure.

    Your story, Book, about how your husband’s phobia complemented your phobia, was pretty amusing.

  • suek


    Heh. I have 4 sons. Like your mother, there were definitely times when I was tempted to bodily throw them out of the kitchen. I couldn’t, of course, because I had enrolled them – in each their time – in cub scouts, which require that they learn to prepare a cooked breakfast. I threw myself out instead, and returned later to rectify the damage done. They ate what they cooked, so what harm was done?

    Three of the four have turned out to be very capable cooks, two share or even do most of the family cooking. The fourth is a failure in the kitchen…he doesn’t even like to go into the grocery store. He’s considering signing up for Von’s “shop at home” program so that he doesn’t have to pick up his own groceries – which is all probably microwavable. He may not have your exact affliction, but certainly a variant thereof. It probably resulted from the ridicule he suffered from his brothers when he attempted to make Kraft macaroni and cheese, but failed when he dumped the packet of cheese flavoring in with the boiling macaroni. The idea of reading the directions on the box before starting was foreign to him.

    I understand.

    You have a good racket going. Good luck!

  • Mike Devx

    I liked 11B40’s satire. At least I *think* it was satire!

    As to Book’s husband, I’m reminded of something. A coworker at Raytheon once told me of some nifty database programming he’d done. At a meeting, a database issue came up, and I mentioned that this fellow might be able to help. My friend glared at me (I think)!

    After the meeting he came up to me. “Please don’t EVER mention databases and me in the same sentence ever again.” (I still can’t decide if he was begging or threatening.) “I can do it but I hate it, I detest it, I never ever want to interface with databases again. I’d rather chew off both my hands. Databases are not on my resume, no one knows I can do it, and I shouldn’t even have mentioned it to you.”

    I presume to this day he’s never done database programming again. Book, if your husband keeps up such a near-vampiric reaction to the holy cross (or garlic-scented) kitchen, I imagine he too will never be required to perform any tasks of any sort in there. But… word to the wise… he may simply be faking you out brilliantly.