A Cut Above the Rest

And I’m off to the city again for the weekend! It’s my last trip before officially moving on the 20th! I’m going to the ballet tonight! Here’s this week’s column for the City Eagle! Exclamation points!


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I was peeling potatoes in my kitchen last Tuesday night when I cut off the very tip of the smallest finger on my left hand.

Blood immediately began pouring from the wound and I dropped the spud onto the counter, holding my hand and doubling over in pain. I screamed. I didn’t have the heart or stomach to glance down, and so I wasn’t entirely sure how much I had clipped off – all I knew was that I was bleeding a great amount and that it hurt very, very badly. I began howling and panting, squeezing the finger with a paper towel.

My mother and father ran into the kitchen, begging me to calm down.

“I LOST PART OF MY F—ING FINGER!” I screeched at my father and rolled onto the floor, sobbing. My mother and I ran to her car and sped the few miles to Community Hospital, where I limped into the Emergency Room (why a hurt finger caused my legs to give out is still a mystery to me), heaving my chest in short, clipped breaths.

Once in the ER, a group of young nurses pleaded with me to quiet down and show my finger. I refused, gripping the blood-soaked towel tighter around the cut. A male nurse to my right inserted a needle into my right arm, sending a stream of pain medication into my veins. I relented, slowly lifting my finger out of its wrappings.

“For the love of ..” the nurse groaned upon seeing my cut.

“What?” I asked.

“We thought you amputated your finger. This is … this is … nothing.”

“Well it really hurts!” I snapped, pulling my finger back towards me.

In the end, I was sent home with a few eye rolls, a mountain of gauze, an X-ray (just in case) and an informational sheet on “finger avulsion.” So what if I had been a bit dramatic? I had a piece of paper that proved my injury. Later that night, I peeked into the bandage to check out the damage. No, I hadn’t amputated my finger. But it was definitely shorter and stubbier than the other nine. And where had my nail gone? I shuddered and wrapped it back up.

As the week wore on and the throbbing subsided, I got to thinking about my past dance career. When I was an eager ballet student, I was warned by my teacher that I wasn’t a real dancer until my toes bled. Day after day, I danced in wooden pointe shoes, praying for my toes to split. I guess I have strong feet, because they never did. I ultimately gave up the endeavor and hung my shoes, choosing instead to torture my toes with teetering high heels. I know it’s silly, but I could never quite reconcile with the fact that I hadn’t been a real dancer.

So did chopping my finger make me a real chef? I can’t say I haven’t entertained the idea. It’ll certainly give me some good locker room talk at the French Culinary Institute. But beyond that, I think it was just an unfortunate accident. You see, I cooked dinner for my flatmate and myself for the first time in our new apartment last week (I’m in the process of moving to New York City). With the oven straight out of the 1950s, complete lack of counter space and my lame finger, the task proved arduous and time-consuming. But it was worth it. We dined on pasta with a vibrantly green and garlicky pesto and tomatoes roasted so gently that the slightest touch of a fork sent them melting into the mess of blue cheese and fresh breadcrumbs with which they were stuffed. As we toasted one another and fell into silent consumption, I held my bandaged finger to my lips and smiled. I’m not a real chef – not yet, at least – but every day I learn a little more, get a little closer. And in the meantime, I can look forward to good eats and even more great stories.

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