Wounded in Action

For Christmas, my father-in-law sent us a spectacular set of kitchen knives. Something we very much needed. There is much cooking in our household (my wife is a culinary genius) and no kitchen is really complete without a wicked set of knives.

The problem with new, wicked sets of knives, however, is that they have not yet learned to recognize food from thumbs.

While preparing to dissect a chunk of sharp cheddar with our shiny new cheese knife, I accidentally let the blade slip as I was picking up the small cutting board. Instead of peeling off a delectable bit of fermented curd, I cut an inch-long gash in the tip of my thumb that now throbs as though my heart is just below the wound instead of the bone I so neatly struck with the blade. Furthering my suspicion that my heart relocated without my permission, the cut bled for nearly an hour despite steady pressure.

Still, I couldn’t help but think, “Man, these are good damn knives! Look how cleanly it cut through the skin and how long it took before my thumb felt like it was on fire!”

And speaking of fermented curd, I continue to cover my writing laziness with more Monty Python . . . .

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