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I have been wounded by an apple. Yes, a harmless unarmed little apple has gotten the upper hand with me and now I sit here bandaged and traumatized.

We are going to visit one of our friends tonight and we thought it would be lovely to bring a homemade apple pie. I just so happend to recently purchase this wicked-looking apple slicer thingy. (It resembles something the may have used during the Inquisition...)

You put it on top of the apple, press downward and hey presto! the apple falls into neat slices and the core stays behind.

I had pressed down on the unarmed little apple but the slicer dowahdiddy didn't quite finish the job. So I flipped the apple over and carefully tried to push the apple through and HELLO! I started to do the Pain Dance around the kitchen. And from the amount of blood decorating the floor I figured I had myself a wound worthy of being shown off to my friends and neighbors. Heck, I thought I had probably cut off half my thumb and would now be able to witness for myself if the local doctor lived up to his reputation of excellence at minor surgery. (Husband had nearly sliced off the top of one of his fingers and said doctor had stitched it up no bother and it's as good as new!)

But after I staunched the bleeding (that medic training still comes in handy!) and cleaned my hand all I found was a teeny weeny little cut. Deep yes, but still it was pathetically tiny. It is so tiny in fact that one regular sized plaster (bandaid) has whipped it into line and it hasn't dared shed a drop. But wow it hurts like I've chopped my hand off! Go figure. All pain, no glory. There'll be no displays of war wounds over hogmany. (Or however you say the word of the intriguing holiday I am about to experience for the first time...)

Husband had to come inside and finish slicing the apples for me because I'm pressed for time: I had a (tiny) wound to deal with and a floor to clean!

And now the apples are being heated up and Brodgar is stretched out before the fire. What a life she lives - never attacked by apples, just sleeping and eating and being petted. Lucky dog! er...Cat! She's a wee beastie though: she's discovered that the kitchen table contains an array of delights that can be pounced upon when I'm distracted. Zeb the Farm Dog is in cahoots - he makes sure that he walks across the freshly washed floor with his muddy cow poop paws and this gives Brodgar her chance to zip onto the table and steal the butter while I'm not looking. (Or the cheese. Or the cream.)

One time Erlend and I came home from toon and while we were unpacking some of the bags inside of the house the barn cats jumped into the pickup truck and snatched our bere bannock and Orkney Smoked Cheese! We found the bannock, half devoured, on the flagstone walkway and the remains of the cheese, riddled with fang marks, abandoned on the lawn. (Not a barn cat was in sight the slinky buggers.) I would have never imagined that a cat would like a bere bannock but these ones sure did. Must be their Orcadian blood...

Speaking of barn cats - we are awaiting the arrival of a batch from the Orkney Cats Protection. The rats have become a bit bold and have been chewing holes in our barley bags. There's nothing worse then spending all summer growing, harvesting and bruising barley only to leave a trail of it across the wet ground because there's a hole in the bag. What a waste!! So I put in a "Barn Cats Wanted" ad with the Cats Protection. I really like cats and I would adopt ALL of the cats if Erlend would allow me to. But he has his limits. I told him that barn cats were excellent to adopt because they earn their keep!! Just as long as they leave the bere bannocks and cheese alone...