This evening May and I cooked together: granola (to soak up all our pear-and apple-sauce), and then salsa verde—with fresh garden stuff whirled in the food processor.
I explained to her why the food processor won’t turn on unless the lid is secured: “If we put our fingers in there while it’s spinning, it would chop them all up, and we wouldn’t be able to put them back on again.” [Side note: Was that cruel? It felt overly harsh once I said it, but it’s true, and I said it lightly, and I really, really don’t want her to ever put her hands in the food processor.]
“Even a doctor couldn’t put them back on?”
“Nope. Not even a doctor.”
“And we need our fingers.”
“That’s right. We need our fingers toooo….”
My reflex was to say was that we need them so we can hold a pen and write, but mid-syllable I decided to see what her answer was instead. “To what?” I finished. For some reason I sort of assumed she’d go straight to the pen.
“Water!” May declared.
“To hold a cup! Of water! We need fingers!”
“Well, yeah. You’re right. We do!”
She continued to groove on the exercise. “And to hold utensils!”
“So we can eat food!”
“And to hold tomatillos!”
Eventually I fit in “and to hold a crayon,” and May interrupted, “or a pencil! So we can draw!”
I guess I’d been thinking that without fingers I could drink through a straw, and that obviously the real loss would be the ability to put stuff on paper independently and quickly. But I’m extra impressed with my little Maslow and her creative and oh-so-right-on-and-logical take on the world.
Especially the part about the tomatillos. Yum.