Close encounters with the food processor

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I’m married to a southpaw, but I’m a chronic right-hander, which for me means that I pour my pot of tea held in my left hand into the sweet little cup in my right. All of this, however, is a non sequitur for some things, like washing dishes, raking leaves, or, more importantly (of course), typing a blog post.  All ten fingers are of equal standing then.

Especially when I make a nice surgical slice into one of them while making dinner.  It doesn’t matter which one, they all bleed the same B-neg red, and it’s just as difficult to type with any of the ten swathed in multiple bandaids. 

Like I’m trying to do right now.

That sense of touch which connects with the synapses is a bit put out, and it takes a little more Continue reading “Close encounters with the food processor”

Ouch

quillEvidently, poetry, not unlike prose, can arise in the bosom of life’s epiphanies or adventures, e.g., The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere, or even our own Star Spangled Banner. Today’s offering comes from the coffers of my own experience.  I prefer to allow the reader his or her own interpretation:

I wore my socks

And stubbed my toe,

It’s had its knocks,

But now I know:

My toe is blue,

It hurts to walk,

So wear a shoe,

(Like I should talk)

Next week, I will return to those more skilled than I in this fine art.  Perhaps, then, I can walk a bit more.