Hubby: 0, Potato: 1


Here’s the thing, folks. My husband is truly an astonishing man. Don’t worry, I’m not going to wax poetic on his merits (the list is long, and we just don’t have that kind of time). Instead, I am simply going to point out one small little detail. He’s completely accident prone. So much so that he defies physics.

Fall upstairs while going downstairs? Check. (I have witnessed this in person, in case you thought I was making it up.)

Run over his foot with his car while driving it? Check. (Admittedly, it’s not as simple as getting his foot under the tire while going for a Sunday jaunt down the road, but still.)

Fall out of a moving truck? Check. (He actually bounced off the sidewalk after tripping over the moving dolly mid-air.)

Before I met my husband, I had been in the emergency room of our hospital less than a handful of times. Since I met him, we gone a minimum of 3 times a year. This year’s already had two trips and it’s only May, though the first one was a concussion given by Biggest head-butting his nose, so I’m not sure if it counts. The latest? He fought with a baked potato, and the baked potato won.

It is important to note that my hubby and I are total nerds, and often eat dinner on the couch or at our computers. We are in the process of making better habits for the kiddos’ sake, but every so often, we revert. Mainly because I am terrible at timing meals to come out when the kids need them to, so the kids eat something else. After which Hubby and I decide that we don’t want to waste any of our evening together by being stuck at a table. Come on, there’s Farscape to watch! And free poker to play!

 

Back to my story. This evening, I tried my hand, with the help of a virtual cooking session courtesy of my oldest friend, to make Chicken Cordon Bleu. I deboned the chicken breast. I wrapped the cheese in ham. I breaded it myself. It was going to be epic. I got a little sidetracked, and decided that baked potatoes would be easier because that old timing problem meant the chicken was cooked way before everything else. So the potatoes got scrubbed, vented, wrapped in tin foil, and baked at 400 degrees for an hour.

Mmmm… Pause while I contemplate the deliciousness of oven roasted potatoes swimming in sour cream and butter.

Ok. I’m back. The kids went to bed while they were still in the oven, so Hubby and I started watching an episode of Farscape. When they were finally done, we were part way through the show. No biggie, we dished out, set ourselves up, and… Oh wait. Hubby forgot water. Allright, let’s sit down and…

*WHAM*

Hubby runs to kitchen sink for cold water.

I blink.

What just happened?

Oh I see, Hubby put his whole hand on top of that freshly baked potato, somehow managing to simultaneously sit on his plate while being next to it instead. Hubby is now quite uncomfortable, and minus one hand. At first, while it was obviously painful, it looked to be first degree. Ice pack and one show later, and it started blistering. Soo…

 

Hubby is now at the hospital, since all the walk-ins are closed. Unbelievably, while I consider myself well stocked for the very reason that he is injury prone, my first aid kit is missing burn cream. I’m going to have to remedy that, and I’m probably going to take inventory to make sure nothing else is missing in there.

And that, dear people, is how the potato won. I’m going to hold to the statement that I saw it jump off the plate. Clearly blame lies solely on the potato.

Poor Hubby.

The Handler.

Oh yeah, the chicken was delicious.

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