That mostly happens when a guy really wants a crisp, even if you’ve been on a joint (or at least you thought so) diet for weeks. But now he’s got apples from an apple tree he used to climb. Standing between him and apple crisp is like standing between a hippo and a lake.
“How many do you want me to peel?” he asks. And keeps going as if he were in peeling Olympics.
“As many as you’d like me to chop,” you say.
“Chopping is therapeutically for you.” And keeps peeling.
You are struggling to keep up and of course, your fingernail gets caught under the chef’s knife. He looks at the pile of light green apples already starting to develop brown spots and notes,
“You need to put lemon juice on this,” meaning the apples.
The juice miraculously ends up under your fingernail, which is already starting to bleed. The chef’s knife is now flying, in the general direction of the guy. You are licking your finger. You can’t be mad at the guy because he is not responsible for your stupidity and you overall lack of cutlery skills.
“I love it when you get domestic,” he says. And kisses you on the neck. And you smile even with lemon juice eating away at the flesh.