Attack of the Killer Pasta
Currently, I feel like a character in a David Cronenberg movie, watching his body mutate
around him. The reason for this is the blister, roughly the size of an egg, on the inside
of my left wrist, due to a close encounter with some superheated lasagne last night. I'd just
completed a hard evening's work on the next issue, and stopped for dinner -- a nice tray
of the aforementioned foodstuff, which had been cooking in the oven, at 200 degrees
centigrade for the past 45 minutes.
I opened the oven and took out the lasagne, which was bubbling away in a ferocious
manner. I distinctly remember thinking "My, that looks HOT", as I added the essential
parmesan cheese, and took it upstairs for consumption in a more relaxed setting.
Unfortunately, half-way up the stairs, I clipped a step and stumbled. I recovered with
the agility of a lasagne-carrying orang-utang, but a wave of sauce sloshed over the
top of the bowl and coated my left hand. In the next two-tenths of a second, four
thoughts crossed my mind:
There then followed a near-teleport back to the kitchen, to slam my hand under the tap.
Which is where I stood for the rest of the evening. But too late, since the damage had
already been done. For not only was the sauce at, or very close to, 200 degrees C, it
also had the curious STICKY consistency. You spill hot water on yourself, just flick
your hand and it will fly off. Not so cheese sauce: we are dealing with the culinary
equivalent of napalm. It remains firmly attached, chewing its way through the flesh
until you hose it off -- along with your skin.
- My, it *IS* quite warm, isn't it.
- Put the plate down, Jim.
- Water. I want water. LOTS of water.
The only question was whether this was going to be one of those red skin and a bit
painful for a while burns, or if we were talking the full-blown reaction. It took about
an hour of throbbing pain for the question to be answered; we were heading deep into
Blister County, stopping en route at Painsville. Now, there's something life-affirming
about pain: it's nature's way of telling you to STOP DOING THAT AT ONCE! In our modern,
molly-coddled society, actual physical pain is not something we have to encounter very
often, and when you do, there are remedies. At least, there are, if it's not 9:30 pm at
night, and the medicine box contains an opened packet of lint and some expired ear drops.
The night that followed was best described as somewhat restless. Fortunately, the
injury was on a spot that it proved difficult to put any pressure on, thereby preventing
the nightmare of rolling over onto the blister, splitting it open like a ripe tomato,
spilling...well, we'll take THAT imagery as read, shall we? But I woke up this morning.
with a dull throb in my left hand, and a more than usually distinct sense of "don't want
to go to work". I phoned in sick instead, and have spent much of the rest of the day
coating the hand in soothing lotions, and trying to work out if the swelling had stopped
expanding ("The Blister That Ate Tulse Hill").
I *think* it has, so now all I have to do is wait for the damn thing to go down again.
As someone to whom scab-picking is a source of infinite pleasure, I've been very good and
not attempted any deflationary surgery of my own [visions of punctured beachballs from
'Dark Star' come to mind]. But when it DOES go, it ain't gonna be pleasant; I can see
myself carting round the sterile swabs for the next few days, just in case a tidal wave of
...uh, okay, I think that imagery goes on hold too.
Time for dinner. Pork pie and salad, methinks, or at least anything that doesn't involve
ovens. Though the way I'm going, I'll probably drop the pork pie on my foot and fracture
a toe. LONG live the new flesh...
Back to the TC home page
- Sept 5th 1997 A nymphoid princess
in paparazzi hell...
- Sept 12th 1997 Scots Way-hey-hey!!
- Sept 19th 1997 Summer Hell-idays
- Oct 4th 1997 Beer and Writhing in Las Vegas
- Oct 11th 1997 Crushed by the Wheels of Industry
- Oct 17th 1997 Is There an (ugly, male) Doctor
in the House?
- Oct 24th 1997 Paranoia, paranoia...
- Oct 31st 1997 "Slow news week, huh?"
- Nov 7th 1997 Living in a Dilbert cartoon.
- Nov 14th 1997 Of stationery, dessert and malicious pleasure
- Nov 21st 1997 Dead tourists
- Nov 28th 1997 Another One Bites The Dust
- Dec 5th 1997 Stupid Burglars
- Dec 12th 1997 Parcelforce =...
- Dec 19th 1997 Ho, ho and in a very REAL sense, ho...
- Jan 1st 1998 Just say...uh, what was it again?
- Jan 9th 1998 As the thin veneer of democracy starts to fade...
- Jan 16th 1998 Feeling (hiber)nation-alistic
- Jan 23rd 1998 War games
- Jan 30th 1998 Jim McLennan is unwell...
- Feb 6th 1998 It's the end of the world as we know it
- Feb 13th 1998 Opening for business: Trash City Tours
- Feb 20th 1998 Mind the bottle, woman!
- Feb 27th 1998 Welcome to Stalag Luft 17
- Mar 6th 1998 Jim McLennan is asleep...
- Mar 13th 1998 It's not my fault
- Mar 20th 1998 Eyebrows, hate mail and baseball
- Mar 27th 1998 A farewell to Ferman
- Apr 3rd 1998 Going to the docks...
- Apr 11th 1998 Obituary: Wendy O.Williams, 1949-1998
- Apr 18th 1998 Jim McLennan is older...
- Apr 25th 1998 Loving Las Vegas
- May 2nd 1998 Morning sickness
- May 9th 1998 De-evolution in action
- May 16th 1998 Getting out of the kitchen