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Who Needs Fingers?



It's Thursday and today is my regular spot on the airwaves. My hubby is quite taken aback by the response I'm getting -- he never realised he had such a famous wife! I find myself being approached in the street by people I've never met before -- "Are you Barbara?" they ask. Even somewhere as grim as a hospital waiting room I'm recognised as a person they know from somewhere! I guess I must have a good face for the radio, as the song goes! Here's a woman who reads out recipes live on air and who hides a dark secret within -- if they only knew! They don't know that their resident cook can't eat and uses artificial nutrition -- why should they? I'm still the same person and I still make meals for the family. What better judge than my own clan to sample my delights -- if it's rotten they tell me so!


I've been missed for two whole weeks. My mother's funeral and a dreadful cold took care of my little show but I'm back on air this morning, 11am. My life is never dull. I've been to a place I didn't like and that was as a stay at home mum. You see that's not me! I've always been employed and even ran my own business so looking at four walls every day was driving me close to madness. I'm much more relaxed and at peace with myself knowing I'm doing something worthwhile and that I'm still a useful member of society, despite my illness.


And the cake icing class? Oh yes! I went to that also and y'know what? I probably learned a little more than I thought. Twenty-one years of making and icing cakes, who said you couldn't teach an old dog new tricks? I learned how to make swags and bows out of sugar paste. I was thoroughly entertained throughout and couldn't wait to get home to attempt my very first swag. It was a disaster. My fingers are just not as nimble as they used to be and this is something I forget. I had icing everywhere from my feeble attempts and no matter how much I tried I just couldn't do it! I guess I have limitations after all and when I look at my fingers I realise that the scars on each of my forefingers tell the truth about my culinary skills. I get my daughter to cut up veg now since I nearly lost a finger to a potato. Tin cans are my worst nightmare, jars and bottle tops are a pain. I sound just like my gran here -- she had arthritis!


So as I type this with my poor fingers (and before I go into depressed mode) I'll blow my own trumpet to the skills I still have. I've no problem talking, much to the disappointment of my hubby, so I'll stick to what I do best -- who needs fingers?!


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