Just over a week ago, I cut my hand while preparing dinner. I’ll spare you the gory details (except to tell you that the cause of the injury was a kitchen appliance called a mandolin. If you don’t know what that is, go ahead and . I’ll wait.) The resulting wound resembles a rather scabrous crater. (I liked it better a few days ago when it resembled a giant squished spider.) It has yet to endow me with any special abilities (“It’s Mandolin Woman! Able to slice, dice and julienne in a single bound!”), and is likely to turn into a distinctive scar. When it does, it will be in good company. My BFF Susan and I often compare “war wounds.” Her theory is that people who are covered with burns, cuts and bruises aren’t necessarily klutzes; they just do so much work around stoves, knives and heavy furniture, often while in a hurry, that their injuries are inevitable. And it’s true; we both spend plenty of time in the kitchen. But her hypothesis got me thinking. Read next feature >