It all started because I wanted to make this salad from the Pioneer Woman. She said it's her favorite salad ever. Ever, ever, ever! Four evers seemed like a lot, and we had a lot of vegetables hanging out in the fridge, so I decided to give it a try. Now, it seems she has since corrected the recipe, but at the time that I printed it out it originally said to use two packages of linguine. What with the quantity of vegetables that it calls for too, that sounded like a lot of linguine, a hell of a lot of linguine in fact, and so I decided to use one box, thinking that I was halving the recipe. I see now that in fact I did nothing of the kind, since one box is actually the correct amount of pasta to create a salad for a family of six hungry cowboys and cowgirls (cowpersons?) Two large mixing bowls of salad later, I started to think I may have gotten in over my head.
And then I cut myself. Because at the time, the easiest way to clean the knife seemed to be to slide my finger along the blade. Along the flat side, mind you, but even so that razor edge sliced right into my finger. I yelped and ran to the sink as blood gushed out, and I tried not to attract the attention of my father. Because he had just given me a lecture the night before when I had also cut myself while de-skinning chicken thighs. "Be careful," he said disapprovingly, "those knives are sharp." After I had bled through my third band-aid I could vouch for the fact that those knives were indeed sharp. But after two knife-related incidents in less than 24 hours, I knew I would be getting a lecture of another kind. Because who cuts themselves twice in less than 24 hours? I'll tell you: my mother, that's who. My mother is utterly incapable of being in the same room with a knife without exiting with at least a band-aid, or at worst an emergency room visit. (Though to be fair, that was only the one time, and you can hardly see the skin graft anymore.) The inevitable comparison is one I've spent my life trying to avoid, and so I quietly nursed my pain, leaving the room every few minutes to change the blood-soaked bandage in an effort not to bleed all over the vegetables. Then I had to chop the jalapenos. I knew it would hurt like a bitch if I got any juice in my cut, and so I was careful and thoroughly washed my hands after. I pretty much lost all steam for the project after that, leaving the cilantro, scallions, and cashews for later, and shoving the two giant bowls of salad that would probably go bad before anyone came close to finishing it in the fridge, and called it a day.
I heaved a big sigh and collapsed in front of my computer, lamenting the fact that no one blogs on a Saturday. What is up, people who don't blog on a Saturday? It's like you have better things to do or something. Sheesh. Anyway, then my nose itched, so I scratched it. It itched on the inside, and no I wasn't picking my nose I was scratching it, god. And then I knew something was terribly, terribly wrong. And even as I'm typing this, typing these very words right now, does that stop me from rubbing my eye? No, no it does not. One bloody finger, a watering eye, and a wet Q-tip in my nose later, and I'm forced to admit that maybe some people just aren't cut out for this cooking shit.
And seriously, Pioneer Woman, maybe next time you could think about including the number of servings on the recipe for guidance, so I know to reduce it by 9/10ths, or whatever. We are not all cowpersons here. (Though the boots are super cute and I could really get behind that.)