It's seven years ago. Jasen and I are newly married, and I'm still in that perfect wife mode. Our friend David was over for dinner, and they guys were in the garage drinking beer.
I decided to make a carrot cake. From scratch. I know. Ambitious. But keep in mind, this is before Juni.
The batter is made, the oven is preheated and it's time for the carrots. I pull out the oldschool cow bell-shaped contraption, and get to some serious carrot grating. Unfortunately, I tend to not pay complete attention while I'm cooking. Knives are constantly slipping and I'm always burning myself. On this particular night, it was my index finger versus the grater.
The wedding gift grater pulled my finger in so far that the skin literally became lodged in its razor-sharp holes. I was stunned. I couldn't get my finger out. Shards of thick, clear skin were peeking through the underside of the grater.
I ran to the garage door and told Jasen, completely calm, that my finger was stuck in the grater. And then I looked down to see the trail of blood and steady flow of bright red drops plopping on my newly mopped white kitchen floor. It was like a scene out of Dexter.
David pulled my finger out while Jasen help my arms steady. I made it to the bathroom before turning pasty white and dizzy. I remember running water over my finger and seeing the skin fall through the grater.
And then I tumbled to the floor. The next thing I remember is Jasen wrapping my finger and holding a cold cloth to my forehead. I have no idea who cleaned up the blood, but I'm pretty sure David cleaned the grater and finished the carrot cake.
It was a damn good cake, considering the circumstances. The grater met its final destination in the trash bin the next day. I am definitely not the type of person who can be left alone with sharp instruments.
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