This is the result of me cooking, plus an old apartment, plus an absurdly tiny, and even more absurdly hot, oven. I'm no stranger to grazing the top wall of my oven as I cook. Never, though, have I actually been burned. As I pulled out a pan of the best rendition of my manicotti shells I've ever made, my wrists, almost deliberately, pushed into the top wall of the oven, conveniently preheated to 450 degrees Fahrenheit. Not realizing the extent of the burn quite yet, likely due to my tendency toward stubbornness about pain, I went about final preparations for dinner. As each moment passed, my wrists lent themselves to searing pain and blistering. At this point, I stood down and accepted an ice pack to soothe my poor wrists. Naturally, however, I added insult to injury by pulling the garlic bread out of the oven with my bare hands (how hot could the bread really get in three minutes?) and eating a bite of dinner before it had enough time to cool (credit this one to pure impatience). I suppose if I end up with a scar, I'll just think of it as a reminder of one delicious meal.
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