Baked Apples and Blood-Letting

Photo Credit: Eat Healthy

About ten minutes after returning home, I realized how ridiculous was the scene I got to play that day.

(I tried to recreate it in stick figures, but it just couldn’t be done.)

I sat on the floor, leaning up against the edge of the chalkboard wall that guards one side of our refrigerator, applying pressure – over my head – to my right pinky finger. A little light-headed from hunger and an aversion to my own blood, I sang, “You are my sunshine,” with all the gusto I could manage … because the Meatball was trapped in his carseat atop a kitchen chair, and starting to get fussy.

I paused between repetitions, closed my eyes, and exhaled through my nostrils at what was happening. 

We needed healthy snacks. We had apples. I don’t like apples. Apple chips? Sounds great.

I packed up the Meatball. We had to go to the bank anyway. We’d stop by Target on the way home and see if we couldn’t find an affordable mandolin slicer. We did. Happy day.

We got home, and he was content in his car seat. So I perched him on a kitchen chair, and enthusiastically narrated.

“Mommy’s gonna slice up some apples! Because mommy doesn’t like apples, but this sounds sooo yummy! We can just throw away this packaging. How many of these apples do you think Mommy can slice before you remember you hate the car seat? Here we go! Cut off the bottom! Stab it with the holder thingy! One, two, three, four, five, six …”

That didn’t feel right. I must have nicked my little finger.

Yup. Blood. No problem. Cold water.

Still bleeding

Still bleeding

Paper towel. Fold, fold, wrap, wrap, wrap. Elevate. Pressure. Still narrating. Still perky and silly.

Soaking through the paper towel. No problem. More cold water.

And then I felt the blood drain from my face. And I caught myself leaning on the edge of the sink.

And Meatball decided this wasn’t funny anymore, and he wanted out of the carseat.

So I called Husband. He would come home 20 minutes early. He dug out the first aid kit.

“Did you see muscle? Bone?”

“No, it’s not that deep. The cutter was only set to one-eighth of an inch.”

“You sliced an eighth of an inch off your finger?”

“… I guess so. It’s a brand new blade. Very sharp.”

“You know this plastic piece is supposed to guard your finger?”

“Yup.”

He found my chunk of finger.

We composted that apple.

Apple chips, though, are delicious. Can’t stop eating them. (Oven at 225-degrees. Sprinkle apple slices with cinnamon. Bake one hour, flip, bake another hour.)