I’ve had something of a knife fetish since I was quite young. In fact, my mom reminds me that I always used the biggest knife I could, regardless of the task. Cut you a piece of cheese? Sure, let me get the 8″ cook. Yes, I do know there are no bones in Cheddar. Please!
When I went to pick up the kids from my parent’s place after their week of vacation, I took all of my kitchen knives along with me. They were in need of a good sharpening and I can only trust my dad to do it right. I’ve since had to re-learn good knife handling techniques due to several near misses… of the bone that is. He did warn me that they were very sharp. I’ve had to ban Milo from casual knife use until I can get his technique up to par. After all, he can hardly text me for help with only 6 fingers left.
Just before I left, indeed as I was packing the car, Dad wandered over and asked if I had any use for a cleaver. He’d bought it for my mom who apparently laughed in his face. Now, Dad knows me pretty well so he dropped it into the bag I was holding before I even needed to say yes. Oh Yeah!! And my wife was at home and didn’t have a chance to editorialize. Double Yeah!! So the cleaver went home.
More famous than my knife fetish is my legendary lack of short term memory. Despite all of my excitement, by the time I got home the cleaver was a forgotten relic of the past. Until my wife was helping Maya unpack. When Maya drew forth the cleaver from the bag full of Barbies and started to swing it around, well… that part was more exciting than when I got the cleaver. It seems that there were certain rules regarding the transportation of dangerous goods that I neglected. Cheerfully, there wasn’t any associated lopping of limbs. Her’s or mine.
Now the cleaver lives safely in my kitchen. It is something else. Nothing seems to stain or mark its surface. It’s forged from a single piece of metal. And oh the cleaving it can do! Why I’ve cleaved chicken breasts, beets, carrots and garlic. Not one of them interrupted the swing of my mighty cleaver. Nothing stands in its way. I’m told it was made in China,but the arcane runes etched on the blade that don’t look Chinese to me. Perhaps Elvish or Goblin. I’m just certain that if I ever decipher them I will learn the true name of this magnificent instrument and unleash unheard of powers of cleaving. Powers of evil beware.
Then again, I may chop off my own hand and curse the damn thing forever. But until then, I can live the fantasy.