“Some people say the kitchen is where they clear their heads; for me, it’s where I face my demons.” J.J. Goode
I’m not a big believer in precognition, but if I’d been looking. I might have seen warning signs. I was reading a novel about a jockey who’d become a private detective after losing his hand in a riding accident. My son, Robb, had been urging me to watch the latest Hell’s Kitchen reality season: one contestant had survived despite having broken a wrist in an early episode’s “punishment.” I’d just listened to The Splendid Table on WUIS and heard an interview with J.J. Goode. Goode, a food writer and critic, was born with radial aplasia, a condition that he says makes his right arm “about the size and shape of a plucked turkey wing” and useful “only as a place occasionally to hang grilling tongs or shopping bags.” He was wryly amusing, and I remembered reading an article he’d written in July’s Gourmet magazine.
Next my mom lectured me, frustrated because she’d been trying to call me. “You always say I should keep my cell phone with me. Well, you should, too,” she said. “What if you fall?” An hour later, I fell. Lying face down in muddy grass, I was in pain and feeling stupid. Why hadn’t I turned on the porch lights when I took the dog out on such a dark rainy night? I managed to roll over, sit up, and finally stand, using awkward crab-like movements I was grateful nobody could see. (My husband, Peter, was away camping.)
Back inside, I assessed the damage. One knee was badly skinned, bruised and swollen. It hurt, but was nothing compared to the pain in my right arm and shoulder. Still, I was pretty sure nothing was broken. Somehow I got undressed and into bed; but my arm hurt so badly that sleep was impossible.
Most of the next day was spent at an urgent care clinic. I had x-rays, (“nothing broken”) and was given muscle relaxers, pain pills, heat and ice advice and a recommendation to see an orthopedic specialist for probable torn ligaments and other shoulder damage.
At home, I quickly found that anything involving the use of my right hand and arm fell into three categories: 1) no problem, 2) possible, but painful, and 3) totally impossible. The first category consisted of a very few things that could be done only with my fingers, using no arm movement whatsoever.
Thankfully, by resting my forearm on a stool that’s exactly desk height, they included typing on my computer, as long as I crossed my left hand over like a pianist to use the delete key. Tying shoes, dressing, in fact almost everything fell into the last two categories, except sitting around with an ice pack or heating pad.
My efforts at cooking would have been comical if they weren’t so uncomfortable. For the first few days, “cooking” consisted of microwaving leftovers. But moving beyond the microwave was a lesson in limitations. Peeling and cutting very small objects, such as garlic cloves, worked pretty well because I could just use my fingers. But a three-year-old with a plastic picnic knife could do a better job of cutting and slicing anything much bigger — especially anything round. Slow stirring with my left hand was fine; whisking splattered me and every surrounding surface.
My temporary situation has given me new respect for J.J. Goode, that Hell’s Kitchen contestant, and anyone else attempting to conquer the kitchen single-handed. I reread Goode’s Gourmet article with deeper appreciation.
