First, let me tell you about the midwinter break I'd intended.
It was to be a quick getaway at a friend's cabin Up North, a few days of cross-country skiing with nights by the fire. Along with winter gear, I'd packed what we'd need for chili, cookies, hot toddies and a breakfast bread pudding we'd planned to make.
When I was ready to leave early that morning, the light was crystalline bright, the air squeaky crisp. My puppy, Daisy, kept whining to get on the road. I tossed the last bag in the trunk and then … I stepped onto a patch of ice. I could hear the bone crack before I saw my wrist dangling, limp.
Sitting in urgent care, it dawned on me: I couldn't move the fingers on the hand that I type my stories with, or swirl the wrist that stirs my pots; I had relied on my right hand my entire life. Looking at the good hand resting comfortably on my lap, I wondered if the left was up to the task.
The first week, Leftie wasn't asked to do much. It could open the fridge and the cupboards, make coffee and mix a drink. Friends, along with my brother, sister-in-law and my sons, stopped by with gifts of flowers and beautiful dishes — vegetable curry, chicken soup in a rich bone broth, Irish beef stew, cherry hand pie. I'd forgotten how delicious other people's food tastes when made from scratch and seasoned with love. Each meal was thoughtfully created with ingredients I could eat with my one good hand.
As the novelty of my condition wore off, I began to put Leftie to work. Is it true, I wondered, that using your non-dominant hand strengthens unused parts of the brain? Would frying an egg or editing an article lefthanded make me smarter, more creative? There were, of course, limits to my capacities as well as my time; even the simplest chore, such as opening the half-and-half container, took twice as long.
That first foray into the co-op, I focused on what I could make and what I might buy for ease and convenience. A rotisserie chicken was just the thing: easy to lift, reheat and serve with roasted potatoes and honey-glazed carrots from the hot bar. The next day, Leftie shredded the leftover chicken, layered it with spicy corn salsa over fresh corn tortillas, and topped it with pre-shredded Cheddar cheese and baked it until bubbling. Leftie was getting the drift.
Opening jars was a challenge, until I figured out to put them between my knees or under my right arm. If I leaned my cast on a loaf of bread, I could saw off chunks. The same with chopping carrots. My handwriting with Leftie evolved to resemble that of a competent second-grader. To type articles, I employed Ms. Dictation, who resides in my computer. But she doesn't spell or punctuate, so Leftie hunted and pecked the corrections.
