|He sees a work of art. I see a cutting . . . thing.|
My Husby plays with knives.
I guess you could call him a genuine aficionado.
When he sees a knife, he has to examine it.
Check out what steel it's made of.
Feel its balance.
Grade the overall quality of its construction.
Several years ago, he and our second son, who inherited all of his father's love of knives, took a knife-making course.
This merely served to up the ante, so to speak.
Now the two of them are constantly examining and purchasing bits of steel that could be used in the creation process.
We have a forge in our back yard.
My garage is stacked with pieces of specialized woods and animal horns that would be 'absolutely perfect' for a particular knife handle.
And all the tools used in the cutting, grinding and polishing of fine steel sit where a normal person would park their car.
It keeps him happy.
And did I mention that we have very fine knives in our kitchen?
Well, we do.
Every shape and size imaginable.
They are S.H.A.R.P.
Each knife in my kitchen has a specific purpose.
My Husby would be happy to elucidate.
At great length.
I wouldn't be listening.
Because I use only two.
A small, paring knife that he purchased for me in Corsica . . .
I should point out, here, that most people buy souvenirs when they travel. My Husby is the same. Except that said souvenirs invariably consist of something sharp and pointy.
With excellent steel, good balance and a really, really interesting handle.
He bought the first on our honeymoon.
Moving on . . .
My second knife is an ordinary-looking blade.
Just the right size for me.
Both are wrong.
Oh, they are good knives.
Do an excellent job.
But as my Husby is so fond of pointing out, they are not the right knife for whatever job I am requiring of them.
Invariably, when he comes into the kitchen when I am cooking, the first words out of his mouth are, “You're using the wrong knife.”
To which he is rewarded with a heated glare.
Let's face it, he's a brave man to say such things when his wife has something razor sharp and very pointy in one hand.
I have often told him so.
He just laughs.
But I will have the last laugh.
And I tell him that on his gravestone, it will read, “She used the wrong knife!”
No jury would convict me.