I was on a bit of a winning streak. My Cleveland Guardians were positioned for a run at the World Series. Shot 38 in one of the last rounds of fall golf. Completed all my church rummage sale pickups. Stowed the deck furniture and cleared the garage.
It was time to set up shop in the kitchen for a good deed, but as I’m fond of saying, no good deed goes unpunished. Who knew that cutting apples could be so dangerous?
Paring, sectioning and dicing apples are the essentials in keeping The PIE Network stocked to make and deliver apple pies for persons who have suffered a loss in the family, celebrated a milestone or deserved recognition for civic work.
On this afternoon, I was working alone. Dan the music instructor was at home supervising his gutter replacement. Jeff the retired elementary teacher left town for a getaway with his wife. Daughter Katie was focused on her chores before the Buffalo Bills game.
So I gathered my tools – peeler, sectioner, Veg-O-Matic, a couple of Diet Cokes, Pandora station tuned to Louie Armstrong and Ella Fitzgerald, and my cordless drill.
Cordless drill? Sure. It works like a charm. Insert a paddle bit, plunge the apple onto the bit, squeeze the drill trigger and apply the peeler to the spinning apple. It’s a huge timesaver, much quicker than peeling by hand.
Everything was working fine. Ella and Louie cruised through “Let’s Do it (Let’s Fall in Love),’’ the Bills wouldn’t start for another 3 hours, and I was making good progress through my two pecks of Cortlands and Ida Reds. Then I popped a juicy, soft, Cortland onto the point. The bit slipped through the entire core and stabbed my right palm. The cleanest reaction would be “Jesus, Mary and Joseph!’’ I’ll omit the obscenity-laden yelp.
Immediately, I thought of Dan the music instructor who usually operates the drill. He had stabbed himself on at least three occasions and likened himself to Padre Pio (1887-1968), the Italian friar known for displaying stigmata on his hands, feet and sides, the same wounds as Jesus Christ.
The Pandora station never missed a beat. “C’est si bon …,” crooned Emile-Claire Barlow. I have forgotten most of my high school French learned from Mary Catherine Spilman, but I did translate that — “it’s so good.’’ I was thinking more along the lines of Bryan Adams “Cuts Like a Knife.’’
There was no time for pity. I bandaged it, wrapped my palm in athletic tape, and kept peeling. I still needed another two hours to section the apples into eighths, dice them in the Veg-O-Matic, then bag them for the freezer before kickoff.
I should have cleaned the wound better. When I went for my A1C checkup the next day, my doctor asked what happened to my palm. She looked closely and pronounced it was infected, then prescribed an antibiotic.
I had to admit I had limited use of the hand. The prudent move would be for me, the Commissioner, to remove myself from the 6 a.m. basketball game the next day at the Y. I gave up my spot to the first alternate, a reckless basketball klutz, but I knew there would be blowback.
Jimmy the Wisecracker emailed faster than you can say Bronny James, responding to my untruth that the alternate, who struggles to catch passes and has fallen while dribbling, would be “a better shooter and passer than me.’’
“Better shooter??? Stevie Wonder is a better shooter than (alternate). And John Wayne Gacy has injured fewer people than (alternate). I wouldn’t know about your passing because, well …, you never pass.’’
“Sorry for your hand,’’ continued the Wisecracker, “but at least you shed blood for a wonderful cause.’’
It was too late to put myself back into the game. No good deed goes unpunished.
The wound will heal and the infection will subside in a couple of days. I’ll pick a rainy day and haul the apples out of the freezer to make 8-10 pies.
However, Jimmy the Wisecracker was wrong. I do pass. Pies!
Sorry, Jimmy. To deserving people.
Morristown native Jim Holleran is a retired teacher and sports editor from Rochester. Reach him at jimholleran29@gmail.com or view past columns under “Reflections of River Rat’’ at https://hollerangetsitwrite.com/blog/
