In Jill's Words

I dedicate this site to my mother. She was a columnist and an author with the uncanny ability to find humor in the daily ins and outs of life. She faced every challenge with a witty optimism, including the cancer that ended her life too soon.

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Location: Boise, Idaho, United States

Saturday, February 06, 2016

What I Actually Got For Christmas

In November, I wrote (quite persuasively, I thought) about wanting an American Girl Doll for Christmas. I know you are all dying to know: Did I or didn't I get what I asked for?

The answer is yes and no.

Here is a conversation I had with a friend of mine a few days before the big holiday.

Friend: "What did you think Dan will get you for Christmas?"

Me: "An American Girl Doll," pause, "either that or a food processor," pause. "He will probably get me a food processor."

Let's be honest. If I give my husband, Dan, the choice between purchasing a doll or a kitchen appliance, he will buy the kitchen appliance.

I did, in fact, ask for a food processor OR an American Girl Doll for Christmas. Dan was not being a jerk.

But as soon as I received the food processor, I realized I was scared of it. It has been sitting patiently in the pantry, waiting for me to put it to use, since December.

I mean, it has—like—sixty blades and weighs—like—a hundred pounds. Anyone who knows me is well-aware that I shouldn't be around anything that comes with so many sharp objects.

I'm surprised Dan bought it for me. He usually tries to keep me away from sharp stuff, like knives and open tuna cans. He has rushed into the kitchen, roused by my howling, on several occasions to find my finger gushing blood from a crooked gash made by a serrated knife.

I knew I should learn how to use this magical appliance from my Christmas wish list, a gift I had equated with the ever elusive American Girl Doll, but I decided Dan should supervise the first attempt. I wouldn't want to have to drive myself to the ER with a bloody limb.

I wrote, "Watch Becky use the food processor for the first time," on Dan's honey-do whiteboard list.

"What does this mean?" he asked.

"I want you to watch me use the food processor. It has—like—a thousand different components and sixty blades. You should be worried about me chopping off my finger."

"It’s pretty foolproof," he said. "I think you'll be fine."

We shredded some cabbage last weekend, and he was right. The blades are protected by plastic coverings, and my fingers don't even get close to the sharp thingies. The processor is so quiet, it doesn't even sound choppy and scary.

On Wednesday, I felt comfortable enough to use it sans Dan, and I made black bean cakes with fried eggs and salsa.


"That was a good dinner," Dan said that evening. "The food processor must work well."

"And I didn't kill myself," I pointed out.

"That's a plus."

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