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My mother recently purchased a kitchen knife. One of the really good ones, the super efficient scary looking kind of knife. So scary that I wouldn’t want to have one in my kitchen – just having it lurking in the drawer would make me nervous.

You can see where this is going, can’t you?

So last Thursday, shortly before Survivor was about to begin, I get a call and mor tells me that she’d been cutting up pork tenderloin for a stirfry and had chopped off about a quarter of the tip of her finger, including the nail. After I suggested that she go to the emergency room instead of calling me and she grudgingly agreed that perhaps she should risk missing that nights episode of Heroes versus Villains, I asked her if she had the part she’d chopped off, in case they could reattach it. Nope. She looked through the pieces of pork, but hadn’t been able to find anything that looked like it might belong on her person.

She goes to the emergency room, comes back and reports no stitches required, it’ll heal and lock pretty close to normal, then says she has to clean up the kitchen, to throw out the pieces of pork lying on the cutting board. I jokingly say “you’re not going to eat that?” She laughs that she doesn’t think so and then I said…

I dunno, it’s finger food.

Drumroll, please.