I Don't Grate Cheese

Tom's family eats a lot of cheese. For example, they like cheese on their spaghetti - but not like, parmesan - cheddar. If I say: "We could make spaghetti," they ask if there is any cheese. They buy ginormous blocks of yellow cheese; chunks get sliced off, shreds come away and nibble by nibble it disappears.

My family always buys pre-shredded cheese. Ah, simplicity in a bag.

Shortly after we were married, I stood in the kitchen making dinner. As with any new marriage, we were smashing together our two slightly differing upbringings. So when the question of "cheese" arose, we went with the block rather than the pre-grated. Of course, we lacked a cheese grater, so I was being inventive and using a vegetable peeler instead. I'm peeling, I'm peeling and then I'm peeling my finger. And my fingernail. I let out a little yelp and then ran my bleeding finger under cold water.

To make things worse, we lacked any sort of variety in the realm of first aid, so we drenched my wound in Neosporin and wrapped it in gauze. I went to work that night (graveyards) and when I came home, the wound had healed so fast, the gauze was GROWN IN with my skin (sick, I know.) A freaked out trip to the student health center revealed what I had already discovered; the gauze was actually meshed with new flesh and required a much hated and much painful shot. I mean, I was grateful for the shot after the initial pain subsided, because they ended up just ripping the gauze out, so I'm certainly glad I couldn't feel it, but for a year my finger felt all fucked up from the numbing stuff...and I'm sure some of that was also due to the slicing off factor. For the next few months I was terrified my fingernail wouldn't grow back successfully and I would be forever stuck with a nubby looking end. Thank God it did. And my finger is fully restored.

But I don't grate cheese anymore.