It slices, it dices, it juliennes!... Or, ‘Here’s my onion ring recipe’

October was a bad month for knives. Originally, I thought it was the fault of the bag onions (the small yellow ones sold in netting), but they were nowhere to be seen the day I stabbed myself in the hand. It just seems like every time I pulled an onion out of that bag, I was going to get hurt.

It started early in the month with a couple of minor slices to the fingertips…both times while slicing up those bag onions. The third incident happened while rearranging the kitchen.

While moving all the knives from one kitchen drawer to another, a paring knife appeared where no paring knife ever should be: In the palm of my hand. The sucker slipped out of a bunch of steak knives while I wasn’t paying attention and I somehow managed to drive it into my right third tarsal about an inch below the joint where it connects to my favorite finger on that hand.

THAT got me paying attention. All you need to know about the tarsal is that it is a bone.
I sort of stood there in disbelief as I looked at the knife dangling from my hand. I was frozen in surprise for a moment, then shook the hand to dislodge the foreign object. After the knife clattered to the floor, I realized it had been staunching the flow of blood. Someone mentioned maybe I should go to a doctor.

“I can’t do that,” I said. “I know my luck. It’ll be considered a stabbing and they’ll call the POLICE. I’ll wind up in my own blotter!” (Because that’s so much worse than pointing out my stupidity on the editorial pages.) Anyway, I lived to try a self-amputation just before Halloween.

I was happily slicing onions into rings when the onion just leapt out of the way. I lunged for the sink to prevent making a mess of the table or floor. The quick glance I got of the wound before the Red Sea began to flow showed me things I thought I probably shouldn’t be seeing, but it really didn’t seem bad enough to need stitches. I applied pressure and held it under cold running water, hoping the bleeding would slow. When it was still pumping after about 40 minutes, I acquiesced, agreeing to go to the hospital.

“I’ll drive you,” eldest daughter said, white as a ghost and leaning against the counter for support.

She doesn’t do blood.

“Oh, no you won’t,” I said, thinking to myself that I’d like to live through the ride.

“All right, I’ll go with you in case you go into shock,” she replied.

I almost fell over laughing. This is the same kid who tried to kill me when she was born. Some things never change.

I set my sights on Oneida Healthcare Facility, then changed direction and headed to the village fire department. I knew I really needed help putting a pressure dressing on the finger, not stitches. The chief’s car was in the parking lot and the lights were on in the building.

“Hey, Chief Sudol; burning the midnight oil?” I asked.

He laughed. I asked if he had an EMT hanging around, and he offered his services.

“Could you tell me if this needs stitches?” I asked.

“Probably,” he replied, starting to peel back the layers of gauze.

“Not until you have something under it,” I warned, explaining that I’m a bleeder.

The chief went and got his bag of toys and confirmed my diagnosis…it probably didn’t need stitches.

“Of course, the trick is to get it to stop bleeding,” he said, as he re-bandaged the finger.

The bleeding stopped in about 30 to 36 hours; more than a month later, the nerves are still knitting themselves back together. The chief is telling people I was putting a body through a wood chipper. That’s all right; my reputation can use all the help I can get.

Shoot me off an e-mail if you'd like the recipe...it's to die for...well, almost.

Printed courtesy Eagle Newspapers, Syracuse, New York.