I am speaking, speaking, of course, about my paring knife, Natasha. I name most of my utensils (doesn’t everyone?) as they tend to take on a personality of their own.
Natasha is quite dangerous ever since I had the misfortune of an errant slice on a tomato caused my left index finger to endure a blood-gushing wound. A recent encounter with her while slicing celery on a bias again left my abused left index finger with another massive gash It took Linda’s nursing skill and three adhesive bandages to stem the flow. And curse my misfortune, I was out of SpongeBob SquarePants and had to rely on the Star Wars band Aids until I could get to the store.
But this story is not about Band Aids. It is about a kitchen knife that has once tasted blood and can no longer be trusted to protect its master. I was in a quandary as to what to do with Natasha. She is so sharp; perhaps to0 much so for her own good. I considered burying her in the back yard, but I live in a townhouse without one. No, I decided I was the superior intellect and should simply gird my loins for battle and either make her an ally or a vassal. I won and since then have sliced many a tomato without incident. Not taking anything away from my inspired battle strategy, I do owe a little credit to my new Kevlar Gloves.
I share the gloves with Linda who needs to wear them while using our hand operated grater “Knuckles.”