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