Have you ever noticed how easy they make things look on reality TV? Especially on cooking shows, where the chefs move their knives at blazing speeds? I love watching Masterchef and other shows with amateur chefs, where they take their chef knife and chop up a whole chicken in two seconds flat. Look, I say to my wife, you don’t have to be a professional to use a knife!

I guess you can say that I’m arrogant and just a bit cocky when it comes to cooking. Sure I’m not that good at it, but when there’s your own personal reality show going on inside your head you have to impress your “fans”. As I’m sure you can guess, that often gets me into trouble.

Admittedly I’ve gotten better at using my knife. When I first started out, I would cut myself at least once a night, if not more. Bandages were attached to her hip at the beginning. Now I’m more of a “cut myself once every few months” kinda guy.

But I’m cocky and don’t know my limits. So for our taco dinner tonight, I went to the extreme: I used my mandolin to cut some veggies. I know, hardcore, right?!? The thing is, in some of these competition shows you see the cook take their piece of food, jab it on the mandolin, and start shaving at a rapid pace. Whip-whip-whip-DONE! Hell yes!

They have this guard thing for the mandolin. Apparently this is for newbies, because you rarely see a TV pro use one. I’m no newbie, so I grabbed my onion and whip-whip-whip-DONE! One onion, out of the way! I grabbed a second onion, put it against the mandolin, and whip-whi— ARGH!!! The damn thing slipped off to the side, while my hand was still in motion down the blade.

I’ve never seen the muscles inside my hand before. Or blood splattering as much as it did. Seriously, my kitchen was beige before I started cooking, but now it’s a deeper red color. The flappy piece of what was left of my hand just hung there, dangling. I tried to call out for my wife, but the words died on my tongue.

I saw colors surrounding my vision. My body wavered. I stumbled backwards and fell, my head hitting the counter. I could feel the crack in my skull as I lay twitching on the floor. My sons came into the room and both screamed as they saw their poor father spasming.

I love my boys. They try to be so helpful. My oldest poked me repeatedly with his lightsaber, continually saying “you’re dead, Kylo Ren” [quick aside, why did I let him watch that movie?]. My youngest, on the other hand, tried to find me a bandage and started taking off my shoes. I begged them both to find their mother. The youngest giggled; my oldest asked Alexa to find mommy (that damn Amazon Echo will be the death of me).

Eventually my wife found me and was able to save what was left of my hand. There’s extensive nerve damage and I may never use it again. Those damn cooking shows make it look so easy.

Okay, fine, I’m full of shit. I did cut myself on my mandolin, but it wasn’t nearly as exciting a story. In my defense [defence if you’re from Canada or the UK], the blade of that thing was extra sharp and it stings like a mother! They really should put warning labels on those damn things…

I don’t care what you say, it hurt!!

The sad thing is that the cutting of my finger was actually one of the better parts of my day (yes, family, I still love you and you’re all cute and adorable).

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