It all started with oatmeal.
I was on the phone with my mom yesterday morning after my Jewish Backgrounds class discussing the fascinating pros and cons of silk flower bouquets versus fresh flowers and making oatmeal when I interrupted our conversation with a hearty "OW!" I paused, waiting for a maternal burst of concern.
"I think I just gave myself a papercut on my oatmeal." I said, realizing exactly how ridiculous it sounded.
"How'd you do that?" she asked.
"No idea. Anyways, I think they make some really realistic looking silk hydrangeas, so if they're cheaper than fresh, then maybe that's the way to go..." I stirred my oatmeal and headed to the futon in the living room, thinking nothing of my wound. A bit annoying, yes, but generally acceptable to live with. All was well for a few hours. And then I went outside and wore my wool gloves, which pulled at my oatmealcut. And went to orchestra and played my cello, which also didn't help the situation. And tried to type a paper and therefore added blunt force trauma to the mix.
By the time I woke up this morning my little oatmealcut gave out a big amount of pain. I made my way through showering looking like I was having afternoon tea with the Queen Mum, although instead of holding up my pinky, I held up my index finger. (How elegant I am! Please pass the shampoo.) While I was heading out the door to class, Mari's (Mexican) boyfriend, Francisco, sat in our living room watching a telenovela and, upon seeing me pass by, said, "Oh Ceeendy, deed ju cut your feengar?"
"Yeah, on some oatmeal."
He looked at me, raised his eyebrows, and turned back to his telenovela, probably thinking it was his English that was the problem. I left him on the futon to ponder it.
I made my way through class, fumbling with unbuttoning my coat and turning book pages and came back to my apartment looking forward to an afternoon snack. I grabbed my phone to give Mom a wedding planning update as I eyed the as-yet-untouched (for the day) canister of oatmeal on top of the fridge. I grabbed the canister and a measuring cup, pouring like a pro and deciding what mix-ins I was in the mood for as the answering machine chirped its instructions. "Hi Mom, it's me. I just wanted to let you know that I talked to Genevive and she said she'd be one of my flower ladies..." I scooped out a cup of oatmeal "...and that they're probably not bringing Langsea since she'll just be two..." I turned on the water to add to the bowl "...but that's okay, cause.............................." I paused "um, I just realized I added the wrong amount of water to the oatmeal I'm making. I have to go fix this. Anyways, gimmeacallbackloveyoubye." I flipped my phone shut and stared at my improperly moistened bowl, wondering what to do and cursing the culinary wonder that is oatmeal.
And then it hit me, it wasn't oatmeal's fault. It was Mom's. Every time I mixed the two, tragedy occurred: papercuts, improper proportions, oh my! She has a similar trend with grilled cheese, accidentally burning one side almost every time she makes it. It's cute though, and I suppose in time my oatmeal curse will be as well.
I tried to right my wrong, microwaving it to a grainy pulp and adding honey and brown sugar. In the end I figured that pouring it into a loaf pan and sticking it into the oven would be the best course of action. Who doesn't love baked oatmeal right? Mom called me back as I stood in front of the oven, poking at my baked oatmeal with a fork. It sprung back to greet the tines. "Did you figure out how to fix the oatmeal?"
"Um, I'm trying to figure it out at the moment actually."
She struck again, as I realized about a half hour later as I sat in front of my computer typing this entry and eating my oatmeal, now the consistency of how I imagine a slaughtered Teletubbie would feel.
It's okay. I still love her. She does still put the burnt side of the grilled cheese down on the plate so I can't see it, after all.