I have harvest hands. Food processing fingers. Dirty digits. (Gak, that last one doesn't even sound good.)
Every one of my fingernails is stained dark All the cracks and crevices of my fingers up to my third knuckle look as if they're harboring something black and unclean.
About a million years ago (give or take a couple of years), I was an executive secretary to a vice-president of a large company. One autumn, I had spent the whole weekend making and canning applesauce. The following Monday morning, my boss called me into his office to take dictation. (Yes, my children, that was back in ancient times when we operated with a pencil and steno pad and wore panty hose and high heels.)
Mr. S, who usually had his thoughts well organized and gave dictation in an easy flow, seemed to be fumbling over his words that morning, stopping and starting with distracted frequency.
Finally when there occurred an especially long pause, I looked up from my pad on the edge of his desk and found him staring at my hands with an almost repulsed look on his face.
"WHAT in the world did you do to your hands?" he asked.
Yup, harvest hands. Dirty digits. I explained the situation to him, but I had the impression he didn't believe me.