Today is Saturday. On Wednesday, I spent several hours engaging in Hamentaschen Mishegas (on which more in a separate post). I produced about six dozen beautiful, delicious cookies, by the way.
But today, Saturday, as I was getting out of the shower this morning, I noticed on the inside of my forearm a nasty scratch and a little flap of skin. It didn’t look infected or unusual in any way, but I had no memory of hurting myself right there. “Holy crap!” I said loudly. My husband, in the next room, asked, “What’s wrong?” I said, “I got this nasty scratch on my arm and I don’t even remember doing anything bad!”
No one seemed concerned about my arm except me. It didn’t hurt much, but it did sting a little when I poked at it. I decided that after I got dressed, I would roll up my sleeve, put on some Neosporin on it and cover it with a Band-Aid.
I got dressed and went and showed my husband my arm. “Look at this,” I said. “What the hell?” He glanced at my arm and said, “It’s a burn blister that burst,” he said, casually. And I instantly remembered: Yes, I did tap my forearm against an oven rack, briefly, when I was baking on Wednesday. So how come I didn’t notice any problems before the blister burst? I mean, why didn’t I notice the blister on, say, Thursday? No idea.
I put some salve on the wound, slapped a big, wide Band-Aid on it — the kind I use on my daughter’s knees when she takes a nasty spill — and have gone on with my day. I expect everything to be fine. This war wound definitely snuck up on me, but I have to say, with these Hamantaschen? It was so worth it.