I had decided that the best way to quench my hunger was through potato pancakes. Unfortunately, I realized, this required the cheese grater: my mortal enemy. We danced in the cabinet like two thorns filled with the poison of bitter life. It had its shining coat with flecks of cheese still grasping towards the side stale and hard. It reminded me of ivy on the outside of buildings.
I wrapped my fingers around the plastic handle, and I grabbed a potato – I did not wash it beforehand because I like to feel the occasional dirt grit across my teeth – briskly and set it to the cold metal. For a moment, I hesitated. This was not the first time we both had to have an uneasy partnership. Well, to be frank, I’m quite sure the cheese grater knew it was a tool and was not happy about it.
Eventually, I mustered the courage to slice the potato through the little slits. Instantly, whether it was my overzealous nature or the bitter revenge of the grater, I knicked two of my fingertips along the edge. I yelled “FUCKING SHIT MOTHER FUCKER NOT FUCKING AGAIN GOD FUCKING DAMMITMOTHERFUCKINGSHITWHORECOCKSUCKINGDAMMITGODFUCKMOSESEATSHITFUCKINGDAMMIT FUCK!”
Incidentally, I knew someone who used a cheese grater to cut themselves. I photocopied that drawing and gave it to her and her cast before a theater performance. She cried, but it was more likely to me writing “good luck” instead of “break a leg” on it. Oh well.