In between reflecting upon those books I haven't read, thinking about an upcoming trip to Ikea and trying to tame the salmonella in my kitchen, I was also contemplating all the incredibly stupid things we do as adults that we'd never dare to attempt as children.
The knife in the toaster is of course the classic. No 10-year old would risk such craziness, but these days if a slice of Safeway's finest gets stuck, I'm the first to unload the cutlery draw and employ one implement after another, prying it out piece at a time like I'm performing surgery. And I'm not satisfied unless the toaster's plugged in and the cutlery is all metal - none of this wooden handle safety nonsense. Hell, I'd do it in the bathroom if the cable would reach.
Next up is my unsanitary dethawing of chicken. This whole problem would go away if I just remembered to unthaw two slabs of the little cluckers the night before. But that would be too easy, so the real question is how to unthaw it in record time. Seeing as Kirkland Signature is never going to recommend anything other than the 24 hour method, I devised my own.
Take the frozen chicken and a very, very sharp knife that's preferably large too, and pile-drive it through, using one of the those wooden kitchen hammer things if at all possible. It makes me feel like Kathy Bates out of a Misery. Watch those pinkies too, since they're considerably more slicable than the chicken in this state. If you don't have a wooden hammer, or you broke it try to put a nail in the wall, you can also use a phone book or a small table. I like to pan fry the frozen chunks. For variation, you can use the microwave on high for one minute. The defrost mode doesn't give the bacteria time to multiply effectively.
The other really dangerous thing I love to you is to take hot dishes out of the oven or microwave, knowing I need an oven mitt or pad and just completely disregard this fact. It's amazing how my oven can make a dish the temperature of the sun in a few minutes, and in the few seconds I try to transport it to a table, I can guarantee some Halloween-quality second degree burns.
My home doesn't have to be the most dangerous place I spend my day, but where's the fun in that? Although I suspect that Mrs Me wouldn't approve of hanging the Sword of Damocles above the front door, I can at least buy extra slippery soap for the shower and loosen the bolts on the toilet seat. I'm not sure if its laziness or stupidity or the sweet spot in the Venn diagram of both, but there's a strange sense of deja vu every time I get injured and think "I really wish I hadn't done that".
But - hey - 33 years on the planet and the brain cells keep dying. Come Monday morning, the FedEx guy will arrive with a box that says "Fragile: no box cutters" and the first thing I'll reach for my handy box cutter with a fresh razor. I'll probably cut towards myself too, just like I tell other people's kids not to do. And I can do all of these things because I'm an adult now, and clearly know better.