Shredded Daddy?

I know, I know, I said I was going to be largely unavailable for the next few days, buried under paperwork and other things necessary to survive. But I found a few moments to share an example of profound stupidity on my part.

My wife was working hard on new product for her etsy shop when I came home, and the boys were doing what they usually do….picking on each other and playing with various boxes and toys.

I decided to take hold of the dinner situation and chose some loaded steak fries. Melted cheddar, chopped onion and avocado, crumbled bacon, and sour cream.

Simple, filling, tasty. So I began prepping things early. You know, chopping, thawing, grating.


There was a wonderful block of sharp cheddar that I almost hated to use all at once, but I know that if you’re going to melt cheese over anything, you need to use a lot of it, so I began the process of shredding it.

Enter mankind’s dumbest invention ever:

In an age where we can instantaneously access information, or use technology to lock our car doors via satellite from a thousand miles away,  or use lasers to repair damaged parts of the human body…How in the hell have we not managed to create something that that can shred cheese without putting one’s appendages so close to danger?

If you read the title and saw the above picture, you can guess what happened.

Now, this isn’t a significant boo-boo. No stitches are needed, or anything like that. I’m just really annoyed at myself for being dumb enough to think that I could master a device that was clearly designed during the inquisition with a purpose that had nothing to do with food in mind.

I’m also a little miffed that I, a grown-ass man, am unable to simply prepare dinner without such little incidents. Moments before, The Narrator asked me if he could grate the cheese.

My response to him was “No, the grater is dangerous, you can get hurt.”

An instant later, as I was suppressing the urge to vocalize obscenities in any language or dialect that came to mind, I could see his arched eyebrows and look that begged the question “Are you sure you don’t want me to do that? You don’t seem to be able to handle it.”

Anyway. The cheese is grated, and I am proud of myself for neither hammer-tossing the cursed instrument of torture out the window or poking several .40 holes in it in rapid succession.

I guess if I can’t teach the boys grace and caution, at least congeniality and restraint in the face of our own silliness is just as good.



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