Burned the fuck outta my hand.
As in, full-on grasped the handle of the all-clad that had just spent fifteen minutes in the 475 oven.
Good Christ, I am like a whimpering baby over here and I am barely second-degree here.
The first rational thought that passed through my mind after it happened was, “Oh God, Ross.”
And as much as I hate to equate you with your injury, man, I can’t stop thinking about how fast things happen, how much things hurt, and—not for the first time—I raise my glass to you and your amazing bravery as you’ve shared your accident and recovery.
Feel free to come punch me in the balls to take my mind off any of this and call me a puss.
When I was six years old, my mother turned on a burner on the electric stove and a short time later hovered her hand over it to see if it was hot enough to cook on. It wasn’t and she left the kitchen. I had seen her do it, but I thought she touched it instead of hovering over it. I got off the chair and slammed my hand down right on the burner coil.
I still clearly remember doing it. I can see my hand with my fingers spread out placed firmly in the middle of the burner. I can hear the sound it made (not sizzling, just the impact on the coil). I have a distinct memory of going out on the porch and sticking my hand in the snow. (I’m sure that was my mother’s doing, not my idea.) It’s amazing how pain will burn (HAR!) memories into your brain. I guess it’s Nature’s way of making sure you avoid dangerous situations. Apparently it works. I have never since placed my hand on a hot burner coil. Yay for me!
On the plus side„ though, I didn’t have to write anything in school for a week after that.
So, Ross and Mike, I wish you well in your recoveries, and I sympathize with your crystal-clear memories of such a bad incident.