Burn Baby Burn

A few months ago I enjoyed some fried tofu while dining at a Chinese restaurant with my friend Stella. Today I attempted to replicate that meal in my own kitchen. Therein lies mistake numero uno. I heated up some oil, coated a block of firm soy product in flour with Asian spices and gently placed it in the pan to fry. When the time came to turn my tasty treat so the other side could brown, I grabbed my tongs, lifted the sizzling pound of tofu, watched it buckle in the middle and splash down into the boiling grease. The next ten seconds commenced in slow motion--huge globs of hotter-than-fuck goo jumped from the pan onto my right hand and foot, causing severe pain and agony. I turned to the sink and threw on the cold water, shoved my hand under the faucet and somehow managed to do the same with my foot. So there I am, in all my panicked glory, with hand and foot in the kitchen sink, watching my skin blister amongst the many dirty dishes. It's a wonder I didn't cut my damned toes off during this whole fiasco as the stainless steel culprit from several blog entries ago was poised and ready under this morning's cereal bowl. Realizing the extent of my injuries, I did what any rational person would do; I ran next door-- in my best gimpy fashion--with a dish towel wrapped around what was once my right hand. I burst through the neighbor's door and, upon learning he had no aloe or other salve-like poultice treatment, I limped back home and called my mom. This makes perfect sense, because some of the best medical treatment is administered via a 4,000 mile phone call. "What should I do?" as I sandwiched an ice pack between my foot and hand while holding up the phone, was greeted with, "Stop cooking in oil." Ah, the advice of a seasoned nurse. Reminds me of better times, like when mummy dearest was convinced my arm WAS NOT broken after I rode my bike at 15 MPH into a parked car, and thus, allowed me to go on the class fieldtrip to "Are You Fucking Kidding Me Roller Coaster Land" the following day. And why the physician at Beaumont Hospital didn't call child protective services when she finally did take me in--after the bones had begun to heal improperly--I'll never know. I digress. When the phone call with the parents ended, I drove to the nearest pharmacy, where I was completely ignored by Dr. ScrewYou and I bought some aloe in a tube and fancy bandaids. I'd tell you what I did next, but my therapist would be upset and I just plain don't want to say. So next time you run into me and you extend your hand to say hello, don't be alarmed when out of my shirt sleeve emerges a wrist with a set of mechanical pincers attached where my right hand once was. And don't bother to ask about my foot. It's a melted glob of flesh resembling fried tofu.