I am typing this one handed.

It being John’s birthday I did the wifely thing and made him breakfast. For the last 6 months I’ve been perfecting my trad-wifing. Not raising hens or homeschooling or obeying my husband’s commands or wearing prairie dresses. Don’t be silly. I’m talking sourdough.

I know I’m late to the party – most people started their starters during covid. I bought my 1200 year old Tuscan starter on Etsy last October (no, I have no idea how to verify its age but I like to believe some Tuscan nonna in 800AD nursed it into being) and have dutifully kept it alive and fed every day since.

Today, I decided to make English muffins to serve with scrambled eggs and smoked salmon. They turned out more like Scotch pancakes. Ie. Flat. It’s a mystery as to why. I chucked them in the oven anyway and turned my attention to the eggs which I’d bought from my friend who is way more of a trad wife, in that she has hens and a pig and donkeys. I plated up the flat muffins, piling on the fluffy yellow eggs so John might not notice the muffins’ deflated status, then moved the pan off the heat. Except the steel handle of the saucepan had been sitting over a gas burner for ten minutes and my palm melted onto it.

On Christmas Day when I was about 8, my mum handed me a Pyrex dish of roast potatoes fresh out of the oven and I took it in my bare hands and of course immediately dropped it, causing my mum to yell at me for breaking the dish and ruining the dinner. That Christmas vanished in a blur of pain much like today has. Except this time, 40 years on, there is at least wine and my grandmother isn’t around to smother my blistered hands with butter (note: do not try this at home kids.)

Hand submerged in water for the best part of six hours I’ve not been able to do much. John had to help me put my bra on. He gets a C- for that. ‘I’ve only got practice in taking these off,’ was his excuse.

Then came lunch. I had secretly run to the Jolly Oyster yesterday to buy two dozen oysters which I served up at lunch on a platter of ice (hand buried in said ice alongside the molluscs – surprise!)

The bigger surprise for John was the oyster shucking knife I had wrapped up for him. It seemed like a good idea at the time. He loves oysters. And what man doesn’t like to work for his supper? But dear god, do you know how hard it is to open an oyster? He must’ve burned off three times as many calories trying to jam open those shells than the oysters themselves were worth. I sat there, like an injured seagull accepting the half dozen offerings he made me. It’s probably a good thing though that my hand was burned – saved myself from lopping off a finger or crucifying my palm attempting to pry-bar open an oyster shell.

Because typing one handed was too annoying I also made him look up how oysters mate, how they grow their shells and how long they live, in between shucking.

After 12 oyster shucks John had exhausted himself. I offered him more sustenance hoping it would encourage him to shuck the remaining 12. What sustenance you wonder? Why, a flat English muffin. I even toasted it for him (in one piece – too skinny to try halving it). But fishing it from the toaster I burned my burned hand and threw the muffin into the air while screaming blue murder. It landed on the floor where John then retrieved it (happy birthday darling!).

After lunch, he retreated elsewhere and I cleaned up one-handed.

Still hungry after my paltry six oysters though, but not foolhardy enough to attempt to shuck one-handed (even with both hands operational I knew it would be a fool’s game that would likely land me in the ER), I toasted the last English muffin. Shoveling it in my mouth, a piece went down the wrong way and I started to choke, tears streaming, breath inadequate for the moment. This is how I die, I thought – one hand clutching a bag of frozen peas, a flat English muffin trapped in my throat, and Melvin too deaf to hear my anguished cries, lying asleep on the wrapping paper.

You’ll be pleased (or not?) to know I did not die. I am however still clutching a bag of frozen peas (and wearing a big hat – my gardening hat, because along with sourdough I’ve taken to growing a pollinator garden).