Same Same

I’m a filthy vegan. The man I’m dating is not. He also regularly wants some sort of dessert if I’m there. My baking endeavors have gone well more often than not, seeing what’s in the cupboard or sometimes planning an easy, vegan-friendly treat for both of us. But, a few weeks ago I attempted a vegan brownie recipe. They came out terrible, inedible. Last week, I bought a vegan-friendly boxed brownie mix. I added some powdered egg replacement… and they came out TERRIBLE again!

So, the other night I had no dessert planned. The dinner I made was okay at best. He requested that I simply heat these Hostess mini pies he’d bought in the cast iron skillet, whether on the stove or in the oven. We chatted as I casually flipped them to help them heat evenly and warm the filling without overcooking the outsides.

I went to flip them again, and felt something hot on the tip of my finger. I assumed that a little filling had burst out, and without thinking, shook my hand to remove it. But the burning continued. Whatever it was, it was ON my finger. I cursed, ran to the sink, and slammed the tap open to cold.

Wes’s eyes were open wide, asking if I was okay. I reassured him, of course I’m okay. It’s just a little burn. I apologized for freaking out. He got ice, but it was too cold to hold directly. So, he put it in a paper towel, and then into a kitchen towel. I asked if he was still going to eat the pies. He said he couldn’t even look at them, and my heart sank. I hated seeing him upset, much less feeling like I’d caused it and ruined his dessert once again. We talked about what had just happened, and I realized that it hadn’t been filling, but that the glaze had gone back to liquid and was incredibly hot.

He immediately had worried and checked on me, realizing this was my left hand and as a violinist, pianist, and guitarist, an injury may be problematic. I felt like I needed to hide my pain, which was significant, and get him to calm down. I didn’t feel safe while he was upset, not because he’s given me reason to feel unsafe, but an ex-husband, dead father, and narcissistic mother sure as hell have.

I developed a blister on my middle finger, and the tips of my index and middle finger hurt like the dickens any time I took them off the ice for a bit. I asked for some ibuprofen, which he fetched. He also grabbed his first aid kit and applied burn ointment and band-aids.

He was in a terrible mood about it all. We watched TV and eventually crawled into bed, spooning and cuddling as we usually do. I carefully put my fingers in as comfortable a position as I could.

At some point, a thought hit me like a truck:

“I can’t tell the difference in feelings between ‘He’s mad that my finger was burned,’ and ‘He’s mad at me for burning my finger.’”

The next morning, with fingertips blistered but feeling much better, I told him my realization.

“That’s funny.” He murmured sleepily.

“Neither was true. I was mad at myself. I asked you to heat those damn pies. I saw you using your fingers to flip them and thought how you should use a spatula, but got distracted by our conversation before remembering to say it. You are mine. And you got hurt here, in my house under my gaze and I didn’t protect you.”

I melted. And laughed. And curled even closer into him.