The kitchen is a dangerous place. Hot ovens, open flame, sharp knives (or, even more dangerous, dull ones), breakable glassware, etc. Yet, usually, I manage to escape injury from all of these.

What gets me is the cheese grater.








No matter how careful I am, I end up grating my hand every fourth time or so I use the thing – while grating, while washing, while reaching over it to pick up something else.

Intellectually, I know that it is an inanimate object, and any harm it causes me is my own fault – a result of carelessness or clumsiness. But just as dragons continue to buy lottery tickets even though they know better, I prefer to believe the grater has it in for me.


What I’m reading: Ada, Vladimir Nabokov

What I’m listening to: Pictures at an Exhibition, Modest Mussorgsky


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