It's been a SLICE
I cut my hand again. Actually, not just cut it...but SLICED it. This time my right thumb. This time pretty bad.
I was stoopid and was using the mandolin without the guard and zzlliippp!!!
The 3 hour wait (TWO separate times!!!) at the hospital didn't bother me (much). Or the fact that I did it the night before a catering gig. It isn't the fact that I can't do anything in the kitchen for at least 2 weeks. And not even the fact that I actually had to ask for help that bothers me.
What bothers me is the way I felt when getting that help.
My parents stayed up later than usual, even for a Friday night. My friends stepped up when I needed them to. One helped out even though he wasn't feeling all that well. One came after his long day delivering packages all day. Another helped out even though he doesn't really know his way around the kitchen. And one...dropped everything and drove across the city cuz...even though I didn't want to totally admit it...I needed her.
I'll be eternally grateful for what they did that night. So much so that I told them that, once my thumb heals, I'm going to make them dinner using the money I made from the gig.
But I'd be lying if I said that it wasn't hard for me to watch them do the work that I should've been doing. Not that they did it wrong...but they didn't do it MY way. And I'm not even saying that MY way is the right way. It's just that when I cook, I have a vision of what things will look like, what things will smell like and how they'll taste like. And unless I do it myself, that vision will never come to fruition.
The thing is...they really did do a great job. People ate up the spring rolls like foreplay in a porn movie. The only thing leftover that I was responsible for was a bit of each salad. But that's because I don't think a lot of people realized that there was a bottle of dressing beside it that's supposed to mixed in. I even locked up the wedding rehearsal dinner.
But that night still bothered me. I guess no matter how successful this whole catering thing becomes...it'll only stay the small operation it already is. I can't accept help and be totally fine with it. It's like that scene in The Five Heartbeats, when the house pianist was butchering Duck's song. Except in my case it wasn't even a matter of anyone butchering anything.
In my mind...it just doesn't sound right unless I'm the one playing.
I was stoopid and was using the mandolin without the guard and zzlliippp!!!
The 3 hour wait (TWO separate times!!!) at the hospital didn't bother me (much). Or the fact that I did it the night before a catering gig. It isn't the fact that I can't do anything in the kitchen for at least 2 weeks. And not even the fact that I actually had to ask for help that bothers me.
What bothers me is the way I felt when getting that help.
My parents stayed up later than usual, even for a Friday night. My friends stepped up when I needed them to. One helped out even though he wasn't feeling all that well. One came after his long day delivering packages all day. Another helped out even though he doesn't really know his way around the kitchen. And one...dropped everything and drove across the city cuz...even though I didn't want to totally admit it...I needed her.
I'll be eternally grateful for what they did that night. So much so that I told them that, once my thumb heals, I'm going to make them dinner using the money I made from the gig.
But I'd be lying if I said that it wasn't hard for me to watch them do the work that I should've been doing. Not that they did it wrong...but they didn't do it MY way. And I'm not even saying that MY way is the right way. It's just that when I cook, I have a vision of what things will look like, what things will smell like and how they'll taste like. And unless I do it myself, that vision will never come to fruition.
The thing is...they really did do a great job. People ate up the spring rolls like foreplay in a porn movie. The only thing leftover that I was responsible for was a bit of each salad. But that's because I don't think a lot of people realized that there was a bottle of dressing beside it that's supposed to mixed in. I even locked up the wedding rehearsal dinner.
But that night still bothered me. I guess no matter how successful this whole catering thing becomes...it'll only stay the small operation it already is. I can't accept help and be totally fine with it. It's like that scene in The Five Heartbeats, when the house pianist was butchering Duck's song. Except in my case it wasn't even a matter of anyone butchering anything.
In my mind...it just doesn't sound right unless I'm the one playing.