Whistling a made-up tune, Jeff Green once again consulted the cookbook. “Thinly” slice the potatoes? His hands were so huge that he doubted that he would end up with anything other than gigantic chunks, but he pressed onwards. His mom wanted him to learn how to cook, and by golly, he was going to learn how to cook.
The potatoes were already peeled, albeit clumsily. He grabbed the nearest one, set it in the center of the cutting board, and hovered the chef’s knife over it. The first few slices were impressively thin, and the strength of his arms meant the knife could cut effortlessly through the tough tuber. He sped up his work, eager to get to the next step of the recipe.
Jeff was brought to a halt by a sharp pain in his finger. Looking down, he saw that he had nicked himself with the blade, leaving a thin gash which was dripping a small amount of blood. However, he made no move towards the sink to clean up his wound. Instead, he stared, transfixed, at the bright red liquid oozing out of the cut.
“The very essence of my being…” Jeff whispered. “Without it, I would be nothing.” He held the finger up in front of his face and watched the blood drip, slowly but regularly, as a faulty faucet might. “Transferring oxygen to the places of my body which most require its healing power.”
Setting down the knife, he placed his other hand over his heart. “I am a human being,” Jeff declared. “This heart pumps tirelessly, endlessly, to power my cells and organs.” He thought back to the time when the doctors had said that maybe his heart couldn’t do its job well enough. That it was in danger of failing. He closed his eyes, feeling each individual beat, all thoughts of food preparation banished from his mind.
How grateful he was to be alive.