ORIGINALLY WRITTEN CHERYL JOST
Oops, I did it again….” I’m not really into quoting Britney Spears, but the young lady’s song title just seems so apropos. I’ve inadvertently injured myself again-smashed my right foot to be exact-and now, a week after my accident, I’ve decided that I finally have the time to get into the clinic to see just how badly I’m hurt.
A bed fell on my foot. Actually, the footboard to my bedroom set fell on my foot. Now stop right there and don’t let your imagination get the better of you; it’s not some tale of unbridled passion. (I’ve already been razzed enough by some of the dads that hang around the dugout at our son’s baseball games.)
The footboard has been propped up in the living room for some time, leaning on the back of a small sofa that defines a walkway to the den and Meg’s bedroom. Keith had set it up there a couple of days after he had brought it home so we could admire what someday would grace our bedroom.
“Someday” being the key word here.
With the remodeling on hold, our bedroom is still a catch-all for furniture and boxes that presently have no home. So, apart from the footboard, our new bedroom set is still in storage.
Anyway, last Monday I came through the living room on my way to my bedroom, caught the corner of the footboard and sent it toppling onto my foot, the heavy wood smashing across the broad portion just below my toes.
So, there I lay, in the dark-did I mention it was midnight-trying not to scream too loudly. Alex, who has taken up residence in the den because the poor, poor boy doesn’t have a bedroom as yet, slept through the whole commotion.
But as soon as the bed hit the floor, my daughter Meg was calling, “Mom, Mom…are you all right?” She ran through the den and pulled the footboard up and into place.
“Oh, it hurts,” I kept groaning over and over again.
“I know, I know,” she said as she put her arms around me.
And she did know. Because two weeks prior to the footboard falling on me, the same thing had happened to her. And just as she was recovering from a softball injury to her ankle.
“We have got to get Dad to move that footboard,” Meg said as she helped me up. “Now, let’s get some ice and Advil for you.”
I hobbled into the sunroom and sat on the couch as my daughter administered first aid.
“Meg, I’m feeling kind of faint.”
“Don’t you dare faint on me,” she scolded. “I don’t know what to do if someone faints.”
“Well then you better call Dad.”
Meg went to the phone and called her dad in from the field. While we waited for him to drive in, Meg did her best to get my mind off of the pain:
“Now we know why they call it a footboard.”
“You’ll do anything to get column material.”
“Look at how pretty a shade of purple your foot is turning.”
“Some moms and daughters wear matching outfits. We’ll have matching feet.”
“Oh, Meg,” I looked at my daughter. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea how much pain you were in when the bed fell on your foot. How did you ever stand it?”
“I said it hurt,” she said as she gave a little shrug to her shoulders.
I swear, I think when the time comes for my daughter to go through labor and delivery, she’s going to say “Oh, my” a couple of times and-poof-I’ll be a grandmother.
Soon Keith came through the door and, after soaking my foot in a tub of icy water, I went to bed.
And then I went on with my life of wheat harvest, ball games and getting ready to cater a luncheon for the Dennis Boldt-Tracy Mosiman nuptials. I hobbled around the house, staggered across ball fields and limped through stores.
But now, a week later, my foot is still swollen and stiff and painful to the touch. I can stand on it, but if I move it in certain ways it feels funny, and there’s a weird tingly feeling. Probably nerve damage. Oh, I should be a doctor.
And since the wheat is safely in, and Dennis and Tracy are enjoying wedded bliss, I now have time to see my favorite medical caregiver, whom I’m assuming will order an x-ray to see just what is going on.
And yes, Keith has moved the footboard to a safe, out of the way spot where it can’t hurt anyone else.
* * *
Two people who are individually very dear to our family were married this past weekend. Dennis Boldt, who worked on our farm while he attended Tabor College, and Tracy Mosiman, who was my daughter’s kindergarten teacher, became husband and wife-and our joy for them can’t be contained.
* * *
This recipe is so simple, yet quite good and perfect for a Fourth of July celebration…or anytime, for that matter. To make this recipe even easier, make sure to note that bottled ice cream toppings can be substituted for the chocolate-peanut butter mixture.
Hot Fudge Ice Cream
1 (16 oz.) can chocolate syrup
3/4 cup peanut butter
19 ice cream sandwiches
1 (12 oz. or more) container whipped topping, thawed
1 cup salted peanuts (or toasted pecans or almonds)
Pour the chocolate syrup into a medium microwave-safe bowl and microwave for two minutes on high. Do not allow to boil. Stir in peanut butter and blend until smooth. Cool to room temperature.
Line the bottom of a 9×13-inch pan with 81/2 ice-cream sandwiches. Spread half the whipped topping over the sandwiches. Spoon half of the chocolate mixture over that, and top with half of the peanuts. Repeat layers, and freeze until firm, about one hour. Cut into squares to serve.
If you would like to make this recipe even easier, use a jar or two of your favorite ice-cream toppings; fudge and caramel are a good combo.