A midsummer night’s band-aid ⁰

Have I mentioned I’m totally obsessed with Groupon and Living Social?

Because I’m totally obsessed with Groupon and Living Social.

It’s a sickness, people. A sickness that causes perfectly normal, rational adults to purchase things like swim lessons for their dogs.

Yes, swim lessons.

For dogs.

Told you.

I suppose I should be ashamed of myself for making such a frivolous purchase.

But when you think about it, seeing a chihuahua in a life jacket kind of justifies the twenty dollars.

Believe it or not, I occasionally purchase deals that, dare I say it, are somewhat classy. Cultured even.

Such as the half-off cooking class I snagged at the Dish It Up Ballard location last week.

The theme of the evening was “A Midsummer Night’s Dining”.

The clever name led me to believe that, in true Shakespearian fashion, there would be fairies, naked people and possibly the Queen of the Amazons.

What? I was a college English major on a theater scholarship. You can’t blame me for jumping to such logical literary conclusions.

It was a good thing I didn’t cover myself in pixie dust and adorn my head with a wreath of flowers as these Elizabethan expectations were not even close to being met. I mean, they didn’t incorporate even the slightest nod to the masterpiece that is “A Midsummer Night’s Dream”.  At the very least they could have tried turned someone’s head into a donkey. Lord, what fools these mortals be!

Thankfully, the fools served wine and ahi tuna, which kept me from causing a scene and referring to the chef as a “knavish lad”.

However, it did not prevent me from noticing the gnarly band-aid smack dab in the middle of his right index finger. And no, he was not wearing gloves.

Those of you who know me understand the gravity of this situation. You see, I’m a bit of a germaphobe. Particularly when it comes to blood.

This all stems from a 2007 visit to the nail salon that went horribly, horribly wrong.

Long story short, a cut on my finger was exposed to someone else’s blood, which led me to believe with unwavering certainty that I had contracted HIV.

From a nail salon.

I wish I was joking. And I’m certainly not trying to be insensitive to anyone whose life has been impacted by HIV/AIDS. These are truly the thoughts and fears that were circling around in my head for a good three months.

Yes. Three months.

Perhaps I was being a bit over dramatic. It’s in my nature — I am a theater kid, after all.

For about ninety days, I was worried sick, planning my funeral and frequenting the Syracuse Community Health Center for free HIV rapid tests. It was not until one of the volunteers recognized me as a repeat visitor, explained for the third time that I was not HIV positive, and scolded me for monopolizing the few free testing slots that other community members actually needed that I finally escaped of my spiral of craziness.

That, and the fact that she said, “Oh, you’re sick, Katrina. Just not with HIV.” before handing me a brochure about mental health counseling options.

Miraculously, I snapped out of it.

Yet to this day, I still have some psychological “issues” with being exposed to other people’s blood.

You see, as a result of my nail salon panic attack, I have a self-appointed bachelor’s degree in “Crazy diseases you can get from other people’s fluids” from the University of WebMD.

I know too much for my own good.

It took a lot for me to push the knowledge that Hepatitis B can live in dried blood for several weeks out of my mind, so that I might sit back and enjoy the Midsummer Night’s Feast I was about to share with my sister Hayley.

I’m not gonna lie — the wine certainly helped my frame of mind.

Within a matter of moments I had forgotten about the band-aid, thoroughly enjoying the tips our chef provided on selecting the best eggplants as he proceeded to chop up some cucumbers for the white gazpacho he was preparing.

Did you know there are literally dozens of different types of cucumbers out there? The chef had selected his from the University District Farmer’s Market, after carefully tasting eight different varieties. This man has an extremely sensitive palette and was able to select the cucumber with the most delicate flavor, and optimal texture. “It’s all about the soil they are grown in.” he carefully explained.

Personally — I would have just gone for the cheapest ones, but I’ve also been known to whip up dinners that merely require water, some form of microwave and a liberal amount of Frank’s Red Hot Sauce, so I’m probably not the authority on cucumber selection.

Our chef continued his demonstration, teaching us how to roast a red pepper over open flame on a gas range, and giving us a run down on how to select the best olive oil.

Apparently, the only oil worth using is about twenty dollars.

An ounce.

This should have been my first warning sign.

Yet it was not until chef snooty pants declared all balsamic vinegar to be trash that I nearly spit out my wine sample.

You can speak to me in a condescending tone about cucumbers, talk down to me about olive oil and make me feel guilty for owning a sub-par ceramic stove top.

I’ll even allow you to prepare my food with gloveless, band-aid covered fingers.

But don’t you dare insult my balsamic vinegar.

Needless to say, I took his opinion very personally. I decided to take my food rage out on an innocent paper napkin, which looked as if it had gone through a paper shredder after just a matter of seconds.

Over the years, I’ve learned that anger seems to heighten my concentration. In addition to shredding napkins, I tend to become more focused–centered, if you will. My synapses fire with more efficiency as I find myself picking up on minute details that may have been overlooked under normal circumstances.

As my inner pressure cooker nearly boiled over in defense of my beloved balsamic, I came to a disturbing realization.

I adjusted my posture, took a deep breath, and a long, slow swig of wine to calm myself before leaning over to whisper the shocking discover in my sister’s ear.

“Hayley! Where did his band-aid go?”

Hayley slowly looked at Chef Hoity Toity’s hand, and then back at me. She made a ghoulishly disturbing face before swallowing the remainder of her wine in a single gulp.

In perfect synchronization, we raised our hands, signalling the servers to refill our beverages.

I desperately tried not to think about the fact that we had just slurped down a pureed gazpacho that had quite possibly gone through a professional grade blender with the remains of our cook’s wound dressing.

The server couldn’t pour that chardonnay fast enough.

Fortunately, our next course was a seared ahi tuna salad. The excitement of being served my favorite protein quickly overshadowed any fears of contracting Hepatitis via gazpacho broth.

Although that would make for a pretty interesting lawsuit.

The tuna was seasoned with nothing more than salt and pepper, then seared for just under a minute on each side so that the center of the fish remained chilled and raw–just the way I like it.

The tuna was to be served over a bed of organic arugula greens and mixture of summer vegetables consisting of sweet corn, fava beans and the roasted red pepper from earlier in the demonstration.

I was fascinated to see the care our chef took while peeling each individual fava bean by hand. He explained that you could save time by blanching them, but he preferred the old-fashioned way. Although more time-consuming, it preserved the freshness and flavor of the beans.

The man is a true master of his craft.

I smiled smugly as he “revealed” to us a special way to remove corn from the cob with a chef’s knife. Little did he know, I’ve been preparing corn that way for years. It’s not that I’m a gourmet chef by any means, but I am married to a Nebraskan who takes corn quite seriously. I may or may not have complacently whispered “I knew that.” into Hayley’s ear.

What? I can’t help it if I’m a corn-cobbing hot-shot. Even if only through marriage.

Next our chef drizzled the summer veggies with a bottle of olive oil that was more sophisticated than Audrey Hepburn and Michelle Obama combined, and probably cost more than my very best handbag. He paused for a moment, scooping three small ladles full of vegetables into a smaller bowl, and then prying through them with a slotted spoon.

He sifted through the bowl for a good sixty seconds, finally returning all but a miniscule portion back into the larger bowl. Hmmm. Not quite sure what purpose that achieved, but the man does peel fava beans by hand, so I probably shouldn’t question him.

Hayley didn’t let a little hand-peeling get in the way of her questioning. She slowly leaned in toward my ear and whispered “Guaranteed that was the band-aid.”

It was just like back in November of 1989, when at the tender age of five, a fellow kindergarten classmate informed me that Santa wasn’t real.

I knew what she said was true, but I desperately didn’t want to believe it.

Remember that part about Mr. band-aid being the master of his craft?

Yeah, I totally take that back.

He may peel fava beans by hand, be able to taste the difference between eighteen different cucumbers, and use olive oil that is valued at more than the average person’s 401K.

But if he’s not going throw out a summer vegetable mixture that has been contaminated by his own crusty band-aid? Well, in my book, that cancels out all of the other stuff. There’s not enough fancy-schmancy in the world to justify a band-aid salad.

At this point, I was faced with quite the dilemma.

I had paid seventy-dollars for this dinner, and didn’t want to skip a chance to enjoy my precious ahi tuna that I had been so passionately anticipating.

At the same time, I didn’t want to catch a viral hemorrhagic fever from a salad.

It was a defining moment. I had to ask the myself the deepest and darkest of questions. My choice would speak volumes about my character, my palette, and, to be quite frank, my mental health.

Is a few ounces of sashimi grade tuna worth a lifetime of hepatitis?

In the end, I believe I did the right thing.

And, as Shakespeare (or any other Brit for that matter) would say, it was a bloody good salad.

Literally. I practically licked my plate clean. Red blood cells and all.

On a more serious note, if you ever happen to use my laptop and stumble across “Can AIDS survive in corn?” in the Google search history…well…now you know why.

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