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.