I am old enough to remember the old Odd Couple television show. I haven't seen it in reruns for a while, so I don't know how many of you will remember the opening sequence to the show. You see Felix Ungar (Tony Randall), at the door, leaving his apartment for the last time. Before he goes, and as the music plays complete with voice-over, the door opens and his wife's arm emerges. She hands him a frying pan. Off he goes.
A similar thing happened to me, but instead of a frying pan, I got a carbon steel wok. I had purchased the wok years earlier, thinking I would become a great Chinese chef. It sat in the pantry gathering dust until I left the house for good.
Let me set the scene for you. It was a Friday afternoon. I was washing my newly acquired utensils, pots/pans, dishes, glassware, silverware, etc. I was also seasoning my wok for the first time. In case you are unfamiliar with wok technology, woks, unless you buy one of those fake non-stick ones, must be seasoned before they can be used. According to the directions which came with the wok, the seasoning process seemed like a pain in the ass. That is probably why I never used it in the first place. But, in my new home, I was determined to season my wok and use it that same day for the first time. Life would be different now that I was on my own. The seasoning process involves coating the inside of the wok with vegetable oil and then heating it over a flame on the stove. It requires a constant manual repositioning of the wok so that the flame hits its entire surface area. According to the directions, this process has to be repeated a few times before the wok would be ready. I was looking at a half hour procedure at a minimum. So I thought, anyway.
Nothing was going to stop me from seasoning, washing and putting a meal on the table that evening. To make matters more exciting, I had a sundown deadline. The Sabbath was approaching, so I needed to finish all these tasks before sundown. I am Jewish and all such tasks must be completed before the Sabbath commences. Don’t ask me why now. It’s the law. The Jewish law. Oh yeah, did I tell you I was cleaning the house and vacuuming at the same time I was washing everything and seasoning the wok? Did I already tell you that the dishwasher was broken? No? It was. Who said men can’t multitask?
Despite the daunting nature of the undertaking, I was making good progress. I am adept in the kitchen, thanks in no small part to my ex. I learned a lot from her. G-d bless.
As talented as I may or may not be with domestic chores, there is always one cardinal rule when tackling any imposing task. Do not rush! Well, I was operating under a deadline so I was more like a tornado than the hallowed tortoise.
So there I was, seasoning my wok and washing knives and forks and spoons and everything else. I thought about taking extra precaution with my new peeler just a moment too late. Just a moment after I sliced the pad of my thumb open. I made a mental note. At least the peeler is sharp. I started to bleed profusely. No big deal, I thought. It’s just some blood and I was sure it would stop if I applied pressure for a while. Remember though, I had just moved into my new home. I didn’t have any band-aids. So, I grabbed a sheet of paper towel - Bounty, of course, and continued washing and seasoning my wok and vacuuming. After a few minutes, I checked my thumb. Still bleeding. What could I do? I was in no position to abandon the seasoning process. I had no idea if it could be interrupted. Would that sabotage the seasoning? I had no one to ask, so I continued applying pressure. A half hour later, I was still losing precious red blood cells. Why won’t it stop? Do I need stitches? How good is this peeler anyway? I couldn’t wait to get to some potatoes and carrots.
I knew I needed to take further measures if I was to stem the bleeding. I decided to call my daughter who was living with her mother just a few minutes away. Maybe she could bring me a band-aid. No answer. Damn. I would have gone to the drugstore myself, but I didn’t want to leave my wok. I mean it’s all I got from the house! I continued in the kitchen, trying not to bleed over everything, especially the wok and everything I had just washed.
By 3:00, I had been bleeding for an hour. Although I was somewhat alarmed, I wasn't too worried. After all, I donate blood on a regular basis. I thought that if I got to the point where I needed a transfusion, the Red Cross owes me. There was no way I wanted to spend 4 hours in the emergency room only to have some medical student tell me I just needed a band-aid, so I called my general practitioner. The receptionist was very nice and asked me what my problem was. I explained that I was seasoning my wok while I was washing a peeler and sliced my thumb open. I told her it had been bleeding for about an hour and no end was in sight. I begged her to find some time for me because I really didn’t want to spend the rest of the afternoon at the hospital, especially if I didn’t even need stitches. She paused momentarily and asked me where I lived. I told her even though I wasn’t sure why she asked. Was my doctor going to make a house call so I could finish up? Unlikely, I thought. No, she wanted to know how long it would take me to get to the office. The doctor was planning on leaving early but could see me if I made it within 20 minutes. I told her I would be there. I grabbed a new paper towel and off I went.
I arrived at the doctor’s office and was seen by a nurse as soon as I walked in. She asked me to get on the scale. Scale? My finger was bleeding! Why did she need to know how much I weighed? Surely I couldn’t have lost that much blood to make a difference in my weight. After all, I was still conscious. I got on the scale anyway. I had lost five pounds. Cool.
The nurse ushered me into one of the examining rooms. She took my blood pressure. That made sense to me. I still had some. I was relieved.
The nurse then sat down and opened my chart. "So," she said, "it looks like you cut yourself while you were seasoning your lox." Lox? "What do you mean lox?" I asked. Clearly, this was a case of blatant anti-Semitism. And at the office of Jewish doctor, no less. I was livid. "Lox?! You have to be kidding me. I was seasoning my wok! Just because I’m not Chinese doesn’t mean I can’t own a wok. I bet you never would have said that if I was black. Blacks don’t eat lox. Only Jews eat lox. Besides, who the hell seasons their lox? It’s already smoked!"
As could be expected, the nurse passed the buck. She told me she was just reading the chart. The receptionist had written the notes. I felt like slicing the receptionist’s thumb. Shylock’s famous speech from Shakespeare’s "The Merchant of Venice" flashed through my blood-deprived brain. I took off the paper towel which had been holding back my blood and let it drip on the floor so everyone would have evidence of my humanity. Yes, Jews bleed. And yes, we might even own woks.
The doctor came in and apologized for his staff’s egregious error. He reminded me that we were brothers, members of the same tribe. I always have liked the guy, so I let him look at my thumb. He didn’t think it needed stitches. He gave me a very fancy band-aid, the kind they don’t sell at drugstores. He wrapped it in gauze, told me to keep it dry for a few days and sent me on my merry way.
As I drove home, one word kept resounding in my head - Lox, Lox, Lox! I suddenly felt like eating a bagel. I resisted the thought and continued on my way.
Oh yeah, I made dinner that night. And, I beat my deadline. I stir-fried some chicken and vegetables in my newly seasoned wok. It was damn good too.
