On War Wounds

I haven't cut myself not even once since I started my cookery course or started working in kitchens. Yesterday I encountered a double war wound experience. Usually when I arrive at the restaurant I change into my uniform, wash my hands thoroughly (because I day dream only for a bit) then check in with both the pizza station and the first larder section to see what tasks they have for me that day. Two of my tasks included slicing buns for the burgers and stocking up on sauces for the pizza station. While slicing the buns in half I accidentally (because no one ever purposely does such things) slice right into my hand with a serrated knife. I call it a bread knife, but I also use it to slice tomatoes, and my hands apparently. I initially ignored the laceration because bread knives are the least dangerous of them all, or so I thought. I continued to slice away until I noticed that bread knives were dangerous after all. I sneaked away to the back sink to rinse off my hand, but the blood just kept on coming. The chef walked by and saw me holding my hand in paper towels and made a strange face at me. "It's just from the bread knife!". He lead me over the first aid box and awarded me with a neon blue bad-aid to cover my second war wound of the day. While I was putting on the band-aid I told him about my first war wound.

Before slicing bread I was in the cool room, happily slopping and pouring sauces into appropriate sized containers for the pizza station. Many of the sauces come in giant 20 liter buckets which require the force of a medium-sized dinosaur to pop the lids back on. My technique for closing such lids is to use my knee to lightly pounce on the lid to snap it shut. My technique failed on me that time. As I lightly pounced with my knee to close an unsuspecting bucket of guacamole the lid folded in half, fell inside of the bucket and took my knee with it. A few moments later I found my leg inside the bucket of guacamole with an excruciating pain radiating from my shin. It hurt so much I wasn't sure whether I should faint or start crying in front of all the sauces. I lifted up my checkered pant leg and noticed a measly little red mark, it didn't look as bad as it hurt. Some moments later I was still wincing in pain and a colleague walked in and asked me how I was. I said the usual "good and you", but my wincing said otherwise. I told him I had just fallen into a bucket of guacamole. His face said, "What the hell does that mean and how does one do that?!"

The chef's face said the same thing when he awarded me my little neon blue band-aid. Mid-shift I lifted up my pant leg to show another colleague my guacamole bucket wound and it had swollen into a rather unpleasant mound of pain. Shortly before the end of my shift I proceeded to give it a good whacking with a part of the grille I was cleaning. I thought I would faint and knock my head into the grille and get a concussion. But I didn't.

This morning it was still sore, swollen and a bit more purple than yesterday. I'm still waiting for the nice green bruisey bits to make an appearance.

War wounds, yum.