I cut my finger really bad last week. I mean bloody bad. Rewind two years, my wife gave me a Sharper Image mandoline slicer as a gift because I love to cook. I can appreciate a kitchen, especially if it’s helpful without too much clean up. I mean, I can wash a knife in about thirty seconds. To wash a food processor, a blender, or a mandoline takes work. That kind of kitchen tool has to be a real hero at the counter in order to warrant time in that spa we call the kitchen sink.

The mandoline is like a superhero if the superhero cursed you out every time he saved you. “Yeah, so that dude who was wreaking havoc to your neighborhood with his laser blast vision? I threw him into a star. but your house kind of sucked anyway, you dick.” That’s The Mandoline. Not a villain, but not a nice guy either.

I was fighting with some really evil sweet potatoes. Dinner was supposed to be easy. I’d already pulled a couple of Juicy Lucys from the freezer (I make a mean Juicy Lucy. When I lived in Minneapolis my neighbors loved them… or maybe they were being Minnesota Nice! Oh no!). Vegetables were going to take the night off (They work so hard. They deserve a break). So grilling a couple of my special Mid-Western burgers and some sweet potato medallions (we call them grill fries) was the plan.

I didn’t feel especially accurate or something that evening. Haven’t you ever felt inaccurate? I’m sure they have something for that. I didn’t feel like using my trusty chef knife for whatever reason (I suspect trouble). “Never fear, The Mandoline is here!” he called out. “What was that?” I wondered aloud. Turning to the large drawer next to the oven I heard him call out again, “Free me from my bonds so I can dispatch the evil sweet potatoes. Hurry! Before they hurt you!” I had a knife. I could protect myself against two measly yams. I guess I felt sorry for the hero. There hasn’t been a crime committed in my kitchen in months. He just wanted to feel wanted.

I freed The Mandoline from his prison, and we got reacquainted with each other. He’s so strong, and sharp; and look at that basin to catch would-be escapees. We need this hero! I chose the blade I wanted to use. I adjusted the thickness for maximun uniformity. Less chance some will grill fries will burn and some will be flimsy.

We tussled with the treacherous tubers slowly at first, feeling our confidence grow. I was remembering all the moves. The prison basin was catching all the malfeasants, and we smiled together as the first sweet potato had been vanquished. “You’re not such a douche, after all, Mister Mandoline,” I said. I knew as soon as the words had left my mouth that I’d made a mistake. That kind of backhanded compliment will only cause trouble. The Mandoline eyed me with a stare that would have turned me to stone if I was lucky.

“You’ve been chopped,” I heard the bastard call out from his hiding placing near the backsplash. “Curses!” I yelled.

As luck has it, my fingers are made of flesh, not stone. We began to wrestle with the remaining sweet potato. This sweet potato was clever. He had an odd shape, and it forced me to change my grip. I held him fast. I would not lose my hold on him. I watched my finger get closer to The Mandoline’s blade, and prepared to lift them at just the right moment.

To my dismay, the not-so-sweet potato had been hiding my middle finger (my best finger) behind him. Electricity shot through my body as my finger nail was cut into a horseshoe shape. The Mandoline was shocked by my strength as I hurled the half yam into him and cursed them both.

“You’ve been chopped,” I heard the bastard call out from his hiding placing near the backsplash. “Curses!” I yelled. That shouldn’t be in quotes. I actually yelled curses. My wife came running. She’d heard me from miles away. We cleaned and wrapped the wound, all the while cracking wise about which finger it was.

My hero that evening was my wife. Not because she aided me when I’d been wounded by my foe, The Mandoline; but because even though I’d suggested it, she never once considered the idea that we should throw the potatoes away. After all, somewhere among the carnage of sweet potato slices was a finger nail wedge with a piece of finger flesh attached to it.

I shrugged as I added the olive oil, salt, chili powder, and cinnamon mixture to the bowl of medallions. I shook it and twirled the contents, coating the slices evenly. We got the Juicy Lucys on the grill, and followed them with the grill fries. “Hey, Google, set a time for ten minutes,” one of us said.

We joked about the incident for a few moments while I paced the kitchen floor. I was using up some of the adrenalin I’d been gifted. When I was calmer I ran my finger through the oily bowl, looking for the elusive sliver among the bits of potato skin flakes. “Oh, I found it,” I said lifting it up with one of my less favored fingers on the opposite hand (the left hand is a corrupt fiend). Completely devoid of irony, and with a straight face she said, “Oh, good.”