I like to cook, and I keep a set of very sharp knives. If I had to, I could cook without my food processor or any of my other tools, but I can’t do without my knives. I hone them before every use and have them sharpened a couple of times a year. More often for those I use every day.
My knives are blood thirsty. With me, they are usually quite tame and docile, but once in a while they get feisty, and nick me when I’m not paying attention. Not hard, just enough to get my attention.
Most of all, my knives love my brother in law’s blood. He is a fantastic cook. He’s also the most meticulous chopper of ingredients I’ve ever known. His diced aromatics and carrots are a sight to behold. A thing of wonder. He is, after all, a chemical engineer. Precise. Brilliant. And he always bleeds when he steps into my kitchen.
My knives lay in wait for when he visits. I can hear them rustling in their drawer when they sense he is close, anticipating his arrival. Craving his blood. He is always wary when he comes into my kitchen. It is rare that I can talk him into cooking. Maybe I have an ulterior motive. Once my knives have had their fill of his blood, they will behave, at least until his next visit. I keep a supply of band aids in the kitchen, just in case. Beware Mark W.