Squash and a White Sink

This squash has been sitting in my fridge for awhile now.  It’s from a garden.  Not my garden of course, you would have to have a garden for that to happen.  But, it’s from a garden none the less.  And, anything that is grown in the ground or that has a mother is good food in my book. 

I enjoy squash.  It’s actually one of my favorite vegetables.  I can even handle it without tons of butter and brown sugar.  So, one would think this squash would have not been sitting in my fridge for awhile.  One would think I would have cooked it up by now.  But, what one might not know is that I ended up with stitches the last time I attempted cutting a squash and I’m gun shy.  Every time I put that squash on a cutting board and grab the knife, I think back to {this is gross but it’s how I am} the blood and fat balls that I could see in my hand.  You know those little white ball things that you can see if you cut deep enough?  Well, I guess you would only know that if you have ended up with stitches at some point. 

Anyways, I just can’t get myself to actually cut into the bugger.  Every time I put that squash on the cutting board and grab the knife, I think back to Momma Debi saying to me, “Be careful, squash are tricky to cut.”  And, me replying, “Yeah, yeah, I got it under contro.....AWWWWW!!!!  I cut my hand!  I cut my hand!!”  And, then me running around the kitchen trying to catch the blood that was dripping because I would NOT put my cut hand over Momma Debi’s brand spankin’ new white solid Corian deep beautiful sink.  Yes, I had just sliced a serious cut in my hand and what was I worried about?  The white sink.

I really do need therapy.

I think I forgot to mention it was the Tuesday night before Thanksgiving.  I think I also forgot to mention that Momma Debi and Dad-o were just completing a major kitchen, flooring, wall ripping out, open staircase, painting, remodeling extravaganza at their house.  And, their kitchen was beautiful.  Well, it still is beautiful, but it was freaking new...white sink new...plastic on the appliances new.  Oh, and the carpet guy was installing carpet in the basement {nothing like bottom of the ninth}.  And, my parents were hosting Thanksgiving for a few of our closest family members.  Roughly thirty-seven of them.  Give or take a few.  

So, me running around the kitchen yelling frantically about the sink and the counters and the floor doesn’t seem quite so “I scream therapy” now.

Finally, Momma Debi told me to stop.  Just stop.  Then, she forced me to put my hand over the new white sink.  Just another moment in my life when I said to myself, “Self, your momma loves you.”  She didn’t blink an eye as she rinsed and rinsed and rinsed my squash cut hand.  I was blinking.  Blinking a lot.  Not from the pain, but from the mess.  I’m a little more high strung than her.

I guess the carpet guy couldn’t stand not knowing what the ridiculous ruckus was all about so he emerged up the newly opened stair case and asked to see my hand.  He said that he was a cut expert.  Apparently carpet guys have a tendency to get cuts or something.  So, the carpet guy came over to the new white sink that now did not look so hot and proclaimed after one quick peek at the white fat ball things, “You need stitches.”

It was perfect.  Perfect timing for the festivities coming ahead in the next few days.

Momma Debi drove me to the ER.  She has a frequent flier punch card at the ER; not for herself though, she’s always the driver.  Except the time her finger was smooshed off in the back of a trailer.  That time she did not drive.  On they way, we talked about what was left to do to finish the house in time for Thanksgiving.  The new furniture was being delivered the next morning, pictures needed to be hung, paint touch ups, decorating, cleaning, etc...  My hand actually didn’t hurt.  I think my brain was still on the white sink.

Once at the ER, a doctor came in and I made some wise remarks, he looked at the fat balls, and he said that stitches were in order.  Then, he walked out.

Then, another doctor walked in and I made some wise remarks and he came over to my hand with a little silver scissors and he proceeded to put the pointy part of the scissors all the way into the cut.

I yelled, “WHAT THE H***!!!!” right in his face.  

He jumped back and started waving his hands saying, “I thought it was numb!  I just wanted to see how deep it was!”

I yelled back, “NO!!  It’s not numb!  What the H***!!  Who just jams a scissor in a cut?  Who does that?!!”

He laughed.  He laughed and said, “At least I got a reaction out of you.  Sometimes we don’t get that in here.”

I did not laugh.  I said, “What the h***!” one more time.

Momma Debi stood off to the side the whole time just shaking her head.  I’m sure that there are times she wishes she could just have a fly on the wall daughter.

Then, after we established that no my hand was indeed not numb, the first doctor came back in the room and said to the scissor jamming doctor, “Ummm, what are you doing?  This is my patient.”

Scissor jamming doctor said, “No, she’s mine.”

First doctor said, “No.  I was here first.  I get the stitches.”

Scissor jamming doctor said, “C’mon.  I want this one.”

First doctor said, “Fine.  Fine.  You can have the easy one.” {apparently some stitches on a hand is an easy case...a wanted case in the ER...and here I thought they were fighting over me}

I said, because I felt it was time they heard from me, “How about someone just stitches this up?”

Scissor jamming doctor won.  He did the stitching.  While he was stitching, Momma Debi and I told him about the squash, the white sink, the carpet guy, the furniture coming, the pictures that needed to be hung, and I’m pretty sure by the end of it, he thought Momma Debi was a saint and I was a weirdo.  Why does that always happen?  She gets to be the saint and I’m forever the weirdo?  When he finished, he wrapped my hand really tight and sent us on our way.

The next morning, the furniture came and I’ll be darned if I was going to let a wrapped up, stitches hand stop me.  I arranged furniture like a mad woman, decorated, and hung pictures, cleaned...but, I did not do anymore cooking.  And, Thanksgiving was perfect.  The house was finished, the food was amazing, the family was superb, the sink was white again, and I had a good story to tell.  

Now, if I could just bring myself to cut that squash that’s in my fridge right now.  I’m not remodeling, the carpet guy is not in my basement, my sink is not white, it’s not the Tuesday before Thanksgiving, it’s been four years...I think I should just get over it.

Who am I kidding?  I’ll probably never cut a squash again.  Someone is going to have to do that for me.  Any takers?