My parents, especially my mother would freak out over an entry like this. As the perpetual klutz, I am hardly left to discover my inner Julia Childs in the kitchen, lest I end up grinding my fingers into sausage.
After getting married, I learnt that I am quite adept at whipping out hearty meals from recipes I remembered from memory. My husband has woefully complained about the quality of meals we have at home ("You're making me fat!" he would whine), and I would retaliate by offering to buy muesli for breakfast the next time we head out to the grocery.
Good meals notwithstanding, I am still quite the clumsy girl, who's slowly learning to use gloves to peel the yams (one scratching episode is more than enough, thank you), keeping an extra set of glasses (breaking two in a week is a tad too much), and wielding the knife well enough to avoid shaving off too many fingernails.
what happens when you daydream while grating cheese
Shower-proofing my thumb, one Tuesday evening