No, mandolines. Not mandolins. That’s another This Week In Fuck You.

This is a story from back when I was just a tiny robot fighting a baby dinosaur.

I loved cooking. I still do. I helped my parents in the kitchen all the time. I loved the deep hum of the mixer, and the fact that I knew that whenever it was turned on, I’d get to have a taste of the cookie or cake dough. I loved snapping the ends off of washed snow peas with my brother. I loved learning from my dad how to make guacamole. It was creative, fulfilling, and at the end, we would all sit around the table together and enjoy a meal we had all made together.

One day, I got home from school and my mom was slicing carrots for my brother and I as a snack. She was using this… machine. A machine that you put a carrot in the top of, and through some unknown magic involving quick hand movements, got perfectly sliced carrots at the bottom.

[via]

 

It was precise, quick, and I was intrigued. Each carrot slice was perfect. Uniform.

I couldn’t help myself. I tried it out. After jamming the carrot into the safety handle thing, I started slicing my own carrots. I wanted more. And it was great. The carrots were delicious. But one of them tasted… off. And looked much redder than a carrot should.

I looked at my hands, and noticed that my pinkie had a very neat v-shaped chunk taken out of it.

Then I started screaming. From then on, our family called that blade the Devil Slicer.

And I’m not the only one. Just last night, our own Sarah took a chunk out of her finger with the Devil Slicer. It’s like a tax, like if you want perfectly cut vegetables, you have to resign yourself to the fact that one day, you’ll slip up and lose a decent chunk of finger no matter whether or not you’re using the bullshit safety handle.

Every time I watch Chopped and someone brings out the Devil Slicer, horrible visions dance in my head. Seas of blood, of sinew, of visible bone. Of Ted Allen using his shirt to stop the bleeding and Scott Conant complaining that not only are there red onions on this salad, but now there’s blood everywhere.

So fuck you, Devil Slicer. Fuck you and your promise of impeccably cut foods at the price of horrific injury. Fuck you and the PTSD-like symptoms you cause every time someone who has lost a chunk of finger to you even glances at you in the top shelf of the kitchen cabinet. Fuck you and your safety handle that doesn’t fucking prevent people from losing a finger. And fuck you most of all for hovering over me, taunting me every time I cut carrots unevenly with a knife.