Blood, Blood, Gallons of the Stuff

If there's one subject that's bound to draw animated conversation like hungry gaijin tourists to a platter of glisteningly fresh sushi, it's self-mutilation.

Okay, so, that sounds wrong. In fact, that's not the word I'm looking for at all - unintentional self-harm, that's closer.

Basically: if it's a dreary day - even if we can't see the rain in our B2 prep kitchen, we can always feel it - and the kitchen is so drowsy that eyelids are literally drooping over the 400th rondelled cucumber, nothing will spice up the mood more than talk about blisters. Burns. Knife cuts. Scars. Chefs and their apprentices have the blackest humour I've ever encountered outside of English people and Melinda, and that's saying something.

But even better than tales of oil spatters and grabbing a hot frying pan with a bare hand? Spillage of blood. It seems to be a favourite. Just yesterday, both Junior Chef M. and one of my favourite coworkers - nicknamed Pretty Boy for his long eyelashes and perfet bone structure - came very close to lopping their fingers off.

J. Chef M. was first. He gave little indication that he was hurt - just gave a soft sigh that would've gone unheeded had it not been for the blood spreading over his cutting board.

The occupants of the kitchen promptly dropped what they were doing and crowded eagerly around him.

"Ooooh, that must have been deep!" Junior Chef F said delightedly, peering with gleeful intent. "Look, you can tell by the way that the blood's coming out, in little spurts." He made little noises to mimic the blood flow.

"That's so gross," said Junior Chef Y, her pretty but sharp face screwed up in disgust. She kept repeating this, in a loud complaining way, even as she leaned in for a better look.

Junior Chef M. was turning a little white in the face, and so disappeared to visit the nurse room, conveniently located on the same floor as the prep kitchens.

Barely 15 minutes later, Pretty Boy's whole body jerked, nearly colliding with mine as I was passing behind him.

"Ahhh ahhh ahhh - fack! Oh maza-faka fack!" he cursed loudly, a habit he's picked up from too much exposure to my foul mouth. He gripped his apron tightly around his left forefinger; within moments the white fabric became stained with red.

A ring of cheerful coworkers formed around him almost as quickly.

"Trying to copy Junior Chef M, are you?" teased one coworker.

"We know you look up to him, but you could always try something less dangerous next time," added another.

Junior Chef Y crept up moaning about how horrible all the blood made it look, her arms wrapped tightly around herself as though to shield her from the nasty. Junior Chef F was talking excitedly with another guy, comparing scars on their hands. I rolled my eyes at them as I passed. Boys, honestly.

Later, I took a look at my own hands. No huge scars yet, only a few are truly visible - knife cuts on my left hand's fore- and middle-fingers, a long burn near my wrist, lots of tiny healing nicks. I have a nasty habit of nicking the skin of the first knuckles of those fingers when I'm cutting veggies like leeks, shallots, any oniony thing really. My right hand is a little worse off - my forefinger is dried out and stained in a very unladlylike manner from hand-shredding salads; the skin of my thumb is almost completely gone as well. A thin diagonal knife callus is developing nicely at the base, which I am actually very proud of.

This calloused approach to pain is something I've quickly learned to embrace. It makes things easier, and more fun, really. For example, today it was an hour past when I was supposed to leave, so Junior Chef M. asked if there was anything he could do to help speed things along.

"But doesn't your finger hurt?" I asked, concerned and not wanting to press work upon the invalid.

"Nah, don't feel a thing," he told me casually. "The doctor said that's probably because I severed some important nerve ending. It should be hurting like hell, but I just feel a little twinge now and again."

"Ooh, lucky," I said, without really thinking on it further, and handed him 5 roasted chickens. "Carve these for me, please?"

He laughed loudly and I couldn't understand why it was so funny. Looking back now... yeah, hindsight is 20/20 and all that.

Melinda would be so proud.