Today, I poured boiling water on my fingers. An accidental occurrence, of course. The spaghetti noodles were churning in the bubbling water and reaching the ideal state of al dente firm tenderness. In an attempt to harvest them before the pasta transgressed into the less than satisfactory state of wet noodle, I snatched the pot in one hand and the colander in the other. In hungry anticipation (I could taste that meaty sauce already) I sloshed the roiling concoction into the draining dish, disregarding my bare hand clinging to the slatted sides. The angry, frothing liquid roared in its release, crashing from the pot into the colander in a plume of evaporating steam. Within a split second, I was made aware of my rash and careless mistake. The escaping watery stream slithered through the drainage slats with admirable speed and continued its gravitationally influenced course by way of my bare and unsuspecting fingers. The hot fiery pain of hell licked and then enveloped my soft and tender finger pads. Oh agony! But somewhere deep inside awoke my survival instincts and the pangs of hunger fueled the rigid control of my hand. It stayed steadfastly collecting the remaining coils of spaghetti without abandoning duty to seek nursing aid. Depositing the noodles into their respected container, the sweet relief of a successfully completing my task did not outweigh the screeching outrage of my reddened and furious fingers. In vain I tried to quash their cries with a steady flow of cool water from the tap, which stubbornly only provided a lukewarm stream. Think! Think! In desperation, I flung open the freezer door and my eyes rested on icy sweet salvation. The frozen bottle of shochu. Like metal to a magnet, my crying fingertips whipped forward and embraced that shudderingly cold bottle of liquor. And thus, I finally sated my hunger with one hand, and yet again, found cool release in a bottle of booze.