Sauce done and judged beyond further improvement (That’s actually really good), she turned her attention to the spaghetti. Reaching for the carton, she notes her left index finger is bare. What happened to that Band-Aid? On both of the previous evenings, knife speed exceeded skill level, leaving perpendicular cuts across the center of that nail, just deep enough to bleed sufficiently to discolor the chink which continually caught on whatever objects happened nearby.
In the sink were onion and garlic skins, basil stems, Kalamata pits (as she was neither Italian nor Greek, any relevant taboos were of no concern to her), an anchovy tin – but no Band-Aid. Dread loomed as she lifted the lid and peered into the fragrant, gently simmering gravy. Resignation descended; on this occasion, she had decided to leave the onions in slices, rather than her usual fine mince. Systematically spooning up and pouring out clockwise, concentrically, before concluding futility, she replaced the lid, heart heavy.
“So, good news, the sauce is done.”
“Bad news, I can’t find the Band-Aid that was on my finger when I started.”
“So, should I throw it out?”
“Of course not.”
“What if it’s in there?”
“Then we throw it out when we find it.”
Returning to the kitchen, she doses the rapidly boiling water with a shot of salt, turns to retrieve the carton of spaghetti, and there, on one corner, is the renegade band-aid.