You know that blond joke where the blond goes to the doctor and says “Doctor it hurts when I do this (pokes finger on leg) and when I do this (pokes finger on face) and this (pokes finger on arm)” and the doctor says “That’s because you’re finger is broken”?

Last night I made 44-clove garlic soup, from Smitten Kitchen and today I can’t escape the smell of garlic.* It seems like the bedroom smells and the bathroom smells and the kitchen smells and the couch smells and, jeez, just everywhere I go smells like garlic! How long do you think it took before this blond figured out her finger was broken?

Apparently, the smell/taste(?) of garlic is not only coming off my skin but has made it into my breastmilk and Baby Evan LOVES IT. So despite his sharp, pointy teeth and super pale skin I guess we’ve ruled out any possibility he’s a vampire (unless he’s one of those stupid, wimpy Twilight vampires who aren’t allergic to garlic and spend all their time sparkling and stalking women). He nursed ALL NIGHT and then four more times before 11 am and made “ah-ah-ah-ah-ah” noises every time I tried to detach him for a minute. I’m hoping this is just temporary. No one’s ever smelled like garlic FOREVER, right? Maybe if I start mixing garlic into his baby food I’ll have more success with the solids. What do you think we should start with, mango-pear & garlic or apple-banana & garlic?

*For the record, it was totally worth it. Oh em gee is that soup delicious and creamy and so so easy, even with my ridiculously cheap leaky blender.

Last night while I was making dinner the inevitable happened and I cut myself with a big serrated knife. I’m honestly surprised it hadn’t happened sooner, during those first couple of hazy, sleep deprived months when I was so exhausted I couldn’t remember my own name and had no business opening a can of soup let alone using the stove and the oven and sharp objects. But last night, despite being fairly well rested and getting 99% of the meal done without incident, I sliced open my finger while cutting the hamburger rolls. (Seriously, how stupid is that? They sell pre-cut rolls, right next to the non-cut ones and if I hadn’t insisted on buying the fancy onion kind I would have saved myself $2.00 and quite a bit of pain.)

After standing in the kitchen and yelling for a few minutes I ended up lying on the floor taking deep breaths to keep myself from passing out and hitting my head. I don’t react well to blood when it’s my own (something that runs in our family – Hi Dad!) and although the cut certainly didn’t need stitches if I fainted and hit the counter or the floor I could easily end up in the ER.

So I moaned and whimpered and E ran to get me a band-aid and came back with the hydrogen peroxide because I needed to “clean out the wound”.

Me: NO WAY IN HELL AM I POURING PEROXIDE ON ANYTHING,
E: Yes. You have to wash it out.
Me: NO NO NO NO NO NO NO STAY AWAAAAAAAAAY.
E: You know, you’re kind of a wuss about pain.
Me: You can’t call me a wuss, you threw a fit because you stubbed your toe last week. And…and…AND…
E: Oh I knew this was coming.
Me: AND. I GAVE BIRTH. You cannot call someone who has given birth a wuss. EVER.
E: You had to go and pull the birth card didn’t you?
Me: The birth card never expires. It’s good FOREVER. And don’t you forget it.