As a man who is permanently out to lunch, I often have my wife in stitches. But never did I imagine I would literally have her in stitches (four of them) after she cut her finger on a roll of aluminum foil while making my lunch.
Women may wonder why I don’t make my own lunch. My wife insists on making it because otherwise I would mess up the kitchen or eat nothing but peanut butter and crackers every day.
Besides, my wife not only makes the world’s best lunches, featuring sandwiches an executive chef couldn’t match, she often packs them in a Victoria’s Secret bag that is the talk of the office.
“What’s in the bag?” I am usually asked by either a curious woman or, more frequently, a skeptical guy.
“Just a little light lunch,” I reply.
Sometimes I say, “I can’t mention it. But it’s edible.”
“Why can’t you mention it?”
“Because it’s an unmentionable.”
My wife has followed in the great tradition of my mother. Although my mother never packed my lunch in a Victoria’s Secret bag, she made me four sandwiches every day. They would range from sausage and peppers to meatballs and garlic (I wasn’t a popular kid), usually on Italian or Portuguese bread. My sandwiches drew the envy of classmates, whose moms consigned them to bologna and mayo on white bread.
My wife makes me eggplant or stuffed peppers on all kinds of bread. Even when I have cold cuts, they are topped with pickles or vinegar peppers and a spicy array of condiments. Since lunch is one of my three favorite meals, I know the importance of good nutrition.
Last week, while creating another great sandwich for the next day’s lunch, my wife suffered the unkindest cut of all. It came from the foil roll. My wife had to use a sheet of foil to wrap my lunch because it was too thick to fit into a flimsy little sandwich bag. Unfortunately, she caught her right middle finger on the roll’s serrated edge and gave herself a bloody gash on the knuckle.
Three hours later, it was still bleeding. When I suggested she go to the emergency room for stitches, my wife said it would stop eventually and, besides, she didn’t want to miss “Desperate Housewives.”
“Would you rather bleed to death?” I asked. My wife thought it over and, after I told her there was probably a TV at the hospital, finally relented.
A nurse taking down information asked my wife how she cut her finger.
“I caught it on a roll of aluminum foil while I was making my husband’s lunch,” she replied.
The nurse, a woman, shot me a stern look as if to say, “What’s the matter, you lazy bum, can’t you make your own lunch?” I smiled weakly and glanced at the TV. “Desperate Housewives” was on.
Soon, as my wife was lying on a gurney and I was sitting next to her, a doctor came in bearing a needle the size of a javelin. He also had a little sewing kit.
“This won’t hurt,” he said.
“Good,” I replied.
“He was talking to me,” my wife said.
Minutes later, it was over. I fainted.
The next day, I opened my lunch at work. It was turkey with tomatoes and pickles on rye bread. The condiments included mustard, mayo and a dab of what I thought was ketchup. It wasn’t.
“How was your sandwich?” my wife asked later.
“Different,” I said.
“How do you mean?”
“I don’t know,” I replied. “I can’t put my finger on it.”
Maybe I should start making my own lunch from now on. Naturally, I’ll put it in a Victoria’s Secret bag.
