Cutting took up most of the time this week. Seeing fingers get somewhat severed was a thing of the past, but blood gushing onto new cutting boards and being used after unwashed because the smelly classmate of mine was too lazy to take it over the dish area was still a very real thing. Our cuts were simple, mimicking the acts of imperial guards from Star Wars that basically just stood there, masked behind a shield of shame, wishing they had something ELSE to do besides stand there. It required little thinking, daydreaming of band-aid-free days ahead in the world of knives that ARE smarter than you and knife handles trying to be as anaconda-y slippery as possible. I kept my grip, clenching with my callused hands and soft as butter fingers, fingers that make 800 count thread Egyptian linen a shameful, unworthy opponent for comfort. 

SPLLLSSSSH Ahhhhhhhhh! 

What in the tarnation was that? It sounded like an unruly chef taking a dump in a stock pot on the line and a poor, senile guest screaming in fear and disgust. The culprit, seeing her reaction, yelled in her direction, but to nobody in particular, "It's so soupy!"  Unfortunately, when trying to relay the story to the authorities in her alien altered state of mind, nobody would believe her on this so-called "Stock Pot Plopper" and his rude antics of blessing the beef stew with, well, more beef. Her persistence with the case wouldn't let up, giving the police a half hearted lead that they relayed to her as "a guy we heard from his cousin's brother that the perpetrator stays over on Viney Street in the Green Valley, which is out of our district. Sorry. Here's a baseball card!" Her secret kept as a secret, her viewpoints skewed and unwanted, and the rest of her days filled with wonderment and curiosity: I wonder if that soup WAS soupy?

Oh, nevermind. It was just a full stock pot of beef stew falling in the dish area from poor handling. 

NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!

I run towards the scene of the accident, sweat dripping down my sides and into my underwear. I have a brief flashback of my days in Iowa, sweating all the way through my shorts two times daily and sitting down in a chair after they had dried twice and feeling the uncomfortableness of what felt like 2 day old newspaper. I mean "sit out in the rain and have dogs shit on it" kind of newspaper. Yeah, the kind you choose NOT to pick up. "Oh, I think I'll just watch the news today." Wait until I shove it down your trousers and then you can see what pain I went through, Jack!

I reach the final destination with worry in my eyes, a throbbing knee from taking a slight spill en route that nobody thankfully saw, and a half closed eye from passing a bread crumb airborne attack. I look around the corner, frantic with what I would smell next, and I hear:

"Oh there he is. Come finish these dishes because we, just, can't."

I sigh with relief, give my two slacker buddies the go ahead to stand around and do nothing as long as they don't let me see them, and comfortably settle into my realm of never-ending dishes and quiet, polite conversation with the dishwasher itself. 

COCKSUCKER, CAN'T YOU FIT ONE MORE DISH IN YOU??

So the procedure of veggies is quite simple:

1. Cut

2. Blanch

3. Drain

4. Saute

5. Wait until they're done

How do you know when they're done? 

Well if you can't figure it out, you might as well volunteer your soul to the purgatory of mire poix where you will slice, chop, dice, mince, and julienne phallic-shaped veggies AND fruits for the rest of eternity.

I suggest you try and figure it out.