Look at the impotence!

 

“Oh for god’s sake, why does this family keep freezing the butter?”  I pull the box from the freezer and extract a stick.  I slam it hard on the kitchen counter — one … two … three times.  “WHY?  WHY?  WHY?  Butter is supposed to be soft.  I hate all of you.”

Mark looks up from the roast beef he is slicing to say mildly, “Next time you blame my side of the family for the girls’ tendency toward dramatic excess, I will be harkening back to this moment right here.”

“Good one, Daddy.”  Kallan giggles as her sister nods agreement.

“Whatever.” I reach into the drawer for one of our new butter knives.  We bought silverware as a family Christmas gift this year, because who knows when we might be featured on the reboot of Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous, and rich and famous people, as a rule, use utensils when they eat.

Or so I have been informed.

I stab at the frozen butter with the newly purchased butter knife.  “Look at the impotence!  I am slashing and I am stabbing, and the butter is impervious to my assaults. Seriously, people … stop freezing the butter.”  I walk to the microwave and toss the stick of butter in … punch a few defrosting buttons.  “I mean it.  Stop freezing the butter or I will grease you all in your sleep and you will slide right out of your blankets and out of your beds and wake in a puddle of oily floor-fat.”

Maj looks at me.  “Great, Mother.  That’s one more thing it never would have occurred to me to worry about that will now haunt my sleepless nights.”

The microwave dings, and I take out the butter and give it a few investigative squeezes.  “Stupid microwave.  The butter is still frozen. Seriously, people …” and I turn in a circle as I point the offending butter stick at each of them, “ … hatred for all of you.”

Maj points out, “Mother, if you just take the butter out of the freezer before you need it, it won’t be frozen when you need it.”

I bang the stick of butter against the counter one more time.  “So your suggestion in this moment is what … that I pause in the making of these mashed potatoes to craft myself a time machine with which to go back in time to the moment at which I should have been aware I was going to need – in the future that is now – malleable butter?”

Maj doesn’t answer me.  I strain the boiled potatoes and dump them back into the pot, which I’ve rested in the sink.  I mash the potatoes a bit and then, holding the very cold stick of butter firmly in my left hand, I use the butter knife to cut off chunks from the end of the stick.  All is going well, if frustratingly, until I go to make the third slice, at which point I run into the center liquidized portion of the butter stick (because microwaves are tricky that way).  Without the benefit of the time machine I earlier failed to make, and so without knowledge of what is to immediately thereafter occur, I fail to adjust knife pressure and instead slash it home … through the far wall of the butter stick and deep into my left index finger.

Blood is very red when spilled against a canvas of mashed potatoes.

I drop the butter in the sink, grab a paper towel to stanch the bleeding, and with my right hand I grab the masher to blend the starchy carnage a bit before announcing, in an overly casual voice, “OK, I’m done here,” as I walk away.

Mark calls after me, “Did you cut yourself?  With a butter knife?  Seriously?”

Maj asks, “Are the potatoes OK?”

Kallan says, “Don’t use all the Band-Aids!”

I resist the urge to walk back into the kitchen and butter-stab them all into a more empathetic state.  I answer calmly from the bathroom, “Yes … yes … and I will use all the Band-Aids I want, thank you very much.”  I rinse my finger, fit the flesh back together, and decide I don’t need stitches or the possibly differing opinion of a doctor.  I bandage the wound tightly with more Band-Aids than are strictly required, and, after a few deep breaths, join my family at the dinner table, my injured finger held high above my excitedly pumping heart.

Mark asks, “You OK?”

Kallan stares incredulously at my hand and sighs.  “We are going to need more Band-Aids.”

Maj demands to know, “Are the potatoes OK?”

I wince as my finger throbs.

Maj demands again, “Mother, this is a serious question – ARE THE POTATOES ALRIGHT TO EAT?”

Mark scoops himself some mashed potatoes.  “Seriously, Maj?  Do you honestly think your mother would serve you food with blood in it?”

Maj looks at me suspiciously.  I feign great injured innocence, because without the benefit of that time machine I failed to earlier build, there is no way to go back in time to the moment at which I should have been aware I was going to need – in the future that is now – a box of instant mashed potatoes.  I don’t answer Maj … instead I scoop myself some potatoes and take an exaggeratedly ecstatic and ever-so-slightly over-salted bite before lifting my glass in toast …

“Merry Christmas!”

Ahem.

 

44 thoughts on “Look at the impotence!”

  1. For want of a pair of scissors, or more accurately, too lazy to go find said tool, I once used what must have been Herculean effort to open a package of Stove Top Stuffing. KaPow! Seasoned bread crumbs in the soup, turkey, potatoes, stove burners, floor, counters, behind the toaster.
    For all that is holy, I had no idea how much stuff was in a bag of stuffing!
    This was 20 years ago. I am still cautioned, when opening almost anything, “Don’t Stove Top that!”
    sigh…

  2. I’m still trying to imagine anyone cutting them selves with a butter knife? But, you’ve always been one of my favorite super moms! If there was a way… You’d figure it out! Love you!

    1. Blood is thicker than butter, you know. (Eww. I think there is a reason that isn’t a thing we all say.)

  4. 1. I keep butter in the freezer and use a cheese grater to get it into things it may then use to melt. Awesome.

    2. I once held my brother’s plate of Christmas dinner slightly too close to the automatic soap dispenser. Apparently turkey and mashed potatoes do not go as well with liquid hand soap, as one might think.

    1. Hmm … you must be more skilled (and less injury-prone) when using a cheese grater than I am.

      As for the other … one time, Persie the Labrador ate a bar of soap and the result was NIGHTMARISH IN THE EXTREME.

      I do hope your brother fared better.

  5. No blood recently in the foods here.
    Though a year ago I did cook a plastic bowl and my favorite plastic serving spoon.
    We wondered where the reflection of flashing light was coming from. Once we realized it was the stove, all that remained was a purple puddle of melted bowl with a two inch charred spoon handle sticking out of it. Reminiscent of those photos of the feet of spontaneous combusted persons.
    So sad.

  6. I used to keep the stick butter in the freezer, until a similar incident happened to me. Now, it is in the crisper drawer of the refrigerator. Although I am seriously considering the cheese grater idea.

  9. I need to yell at my email!! Why was I not notified of this post?? I just happened to come see if there was anything new, and lo and behold, there was!. Why does hotmail hate me so?? Is your finger okay now? A good hearty laugh @ Maj worrying about nothing but the potatoes. I would’ve said “you’ll never know” before eating them =P

    Reminds me of the time I was icing a cake and my ex husband wanted a picture so I leaned down by it and he shoved my face into it. Not thinking, I swiped at him with the butter knife and it actually made a cut down his arm. Sorry, not sorry =)

    1. I know the email service is working, because I am myself signed up for it. Every time I post, I get a little email notice of my words. Sometimes, it’s a tiny biy awkward, as I click the send-receive button with a little thrill of I’VE GOT MAIL and then it’s just me to me. Ahem.

      My finger is healing, although it made typing painful and typo-ridden for a bit. I think in the end, my finger will have a good-sized dent. It suits me.

      As for the butter-knife incident? Anyone who shoves your face in cake (including on one’s wedding day) deserves to be an ex.

      So there.

      Sorry, not sorry indeed.

  10. First, I’d check under the frozen butter in the freezer. You may find the extra box of Band-Aids there. Might wear gloves: that metal is cold. Second, a little cautionary note: if you ever find that you’ve flown from NYC to London, walked around several hours, caught the train to Calais and the Chunnel, connected in Paris to Brussels, and then, approximately 40 hrs. after you woke up, find your belt needs another hole, that’s NOT the time to use a folding pocket-knife to cut said hole, because the knife MIGHT just fold on your finger, requiring a trip to a Brussels ER. Of course, such a scenario is unlikely today because TSA would confiscate said pocket-knife, but variations on the theme MIGHT present themselves, and it’s alway good to be prepared.

  11. My mom won’t let me near sharp objects when we’re cooking at her house because my track record is sharp objects: 1 million, me: 0.

    I put the incident in “I’m accident prone.” at the holidays.

  12. So why DO they keep the butter in the freezer? I keep the extra butter in the freezer because my supermarket sometimes has good sales on butter, but the butter I’m going to use is always in the fridge, and there is usually one stick in a butter dish out on the counter, I habit I got into during the long, long years where my son ate cinnamon toast for breakfast every day and had a fit if the butter wasn’t completely melted into the toast before he got to it. Routinely keeping the butter in the freezer seems odd.

    1. I am stuck on the image of butter left out on the counter, which although I’m sure is perfectly fine, would make BOTH of my daughters (but most especially Maj) GO INSANE.

      Giggles at the thought.

      As for why the butter is in the freezer? I HAVE NO IDEA. NONE.

  13. I hope your finger is better and your slightly over-salted carbohydrates kept Maj guessing, just a little.

    I keep extra butter in the freezer, but when there’s only one remaining stick in the fridge – I remove said extra butter from said freezer and place it in said fridge. (that’s a lot of “said”; eek.)

    Also – gooey liquid butter centers are never to be trusted, ever.

    And finally – stories like this is why I never cook. I’m not allowed. Though my story involved an electric stove, frozen corn, boiling water and the eventual stove fire I started.

    A) It wasn’t my fault and B) I’m good with never having to cook.

    1. In moments like this, I always remember the story of how my mom set impressive fire to her kitchen wallpaper using a toaster to make flour tortillas.

      She is no longer allowed to cook, either.

      And she is totally fine with that.

      Hee hee.

      1. Husband went to culinary school. Holds a degree in most things food.
        Who am I to deny him his educational delights?

  15. We were on a European cruise this summer and the dining room always gave you frozen butter in a dish on ice. I never understood it and it pissed me off every time. Luckily Chris and Tori frown on frozen butter as well….

      1. They freeze the butter and keep it on ice but getting ice in a drink is like pulling teeth. It was astounding. I’m glad we went when we did with all the chaos now. If I could live anywhere in the world, beside the US, it would be Mykonos Greece. Unfortunately they only believe in using ice to serve the frozen butter. Also in parts of Italy like Naples they eat a late lunch and then everything shuts down so people can take an afternoon nap. Even the schools get out early for naps. That is a bonus

        1. I’m on board with the naps … is the ice-thing because of potential hazards in the water? Or just a weird European thing?

          Seriously on-board with the nap thing.

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