I think I slow-roasted my finger yesterday. The index finger on my left hand — the one that comes in useful for things I need to do on a fairly regular basis for work, such as typing and pressing elevator buttons — is very sore, numb, and doesn’t want to comply with even the simplest requests to do important things like bend or point at exciting or surprising things in the sky.
The reason for this is that I spent yesterday — that is, most of yesterday between the hours of ten and four — standing in a food pavilion tent in Hawrelak Park cooking approximately five hundred French crÃƒÂªpes, and somewhere in all that cooking, between having my finger a few inches away from a propane flame, occasionally touching that metal part of the frying pan handle (that you’re not supposed to touch, I know!), and performing a whole variety of frying pan acrobatics — flipping, swirling, tilting, swishing, swashing, raising, shaking, and holding — said finger let me know via various aching and tingling sensations that it was taking the rest of the week off. Unfortunately, calling in sick with the excuse that “my finger is sore from cooking” probably wouldn’t fly… so… yeah.
Why, you ask, was I cooking French crÃƒÂªpes in Hawrelak Park on my day off? I’m not French, you say. I’ve never cooked a crÃƒÂªpe in my life, prior to yesterday, you remind me. I can’t even speak French, tu parles.
Unfortunately the story is not particularly crazy or nearly as interesting as the activity itself. My neighbor asked if I’d volunteer as they were short staffed for the Heritage Festival. That’s all. She poked her head out on her deck one day last weekend and asked me. So, I signed up and found my way down there and next thing you know: I’m cooking French crÃƒÂªpes in Hawrelak Park on my day off. (Hey, I warned you it was not that exciting of a story.)
But my tale of finger woe? Now that’s a winner.