Fr Albert Robertson OP prepares a seasonal pie, a meal for June, after a trip to hospital to mend a sliced finger.
Well, it has finally happened. After years in the kitchen I finally nicked some of my finger off while cooking. I now feel like a proper martyr to the culinary arts, having turned the kitchen sink into something redolent of the opening scenes of Saving Private Ryan. While sitting in the Minor Injuries Unit of the Edinburgh Royal Infirmary, looking at an alarmingly large pool of my blood, the practice nurse reassured me that it wasn’t as much as I thought it was and that he had seen much worse. He did tell me, with some gravity, that there might be some scarring, and I reassured him in turn that, given that nobody has declared my left index finger my most distinguished feature, this news was not a crushing blow. Still, it was irritating, mildly painful, and made saying Mass look frankly comical.
