I hear Mercury is still in retrograde. Surely that can be the only excuse for yesterday’s random series of events that landed me in the emergency room for five stitches in my index finger and a tetanus shot.
I’d been very much looking forward to the annual “Celebration of Our Members” event held by the Culinary Historians of New York. In addition to general catching up with friends I hadn’t seen all summer, I wanted to pick up books written by members (Raising Steaks! Grains Greens & Grated Coconuts! Seven Fires!) and hear about Diana Pittet’s round-the-world cheese adventure. And surely a few people would be reporting back from the Oxford Symposium on Food & Cookery.
This was also meant to be a low-stress preview for Spice & Ice – game plan was to mix up a few shakersful of Poblano-Blackberry Margarita for a friendly audience, and then sit my butt down and listen to other people present their work.
Not so fast.
I keep thinking about all the “what-ifs” that might have allowed me to participate as planned. If only…
…our venue had an ice maker on site, I wouldn’t have dashed out to the corner deli to pick up a bag of ice.
…the ice hadn’t been frozen solid (meaning it was poorly handled – partially melted and then re-frozen) I wouldn’t have needed to bash it to pieces to create usable chunks.
…I’d had the brains to smash it in the sink, not on the floor.
…the cheap-ass bag hadn’t broken, spilling ice cubes all over the floor.
…the janitor had arrived sooner with the mop, the floor might not have been wet.
…I’d been smart enough to go around the other side of the kitchen island, I might not have slipped.
…I hadn’t been carrying a bottle of Cointreau, it wouldn’t have smashed, lacerating my hand.
Of course, it was just an accident, plain and simple. But these are the things that went through my mind as I sat in the ER, dejected at missing all the fun and smelling rather like a distillery. (Self-pity trumps fear!) Renee, a cool-headed friend keeping me company at Lenox Hill, charitably said that the high orange note of the liqueur smelled more like strong perfume.
Here’s a photo of the morning after the night before. I’m trying to come up with less embarrassing reasons for the bandage than “I slipped.” Knife fight (you should see the other guy…). Trapeze mishap. Daredevil monster truck race. Got any bad-ass ideas I can use?
The stitches come out in a week. Hopefully by then Mercury will have moved far, far, far out of retrograde.