The kitchen knife, which my sister-in-law's husband forged in his garage and recently gave to me, stands in it's own handcrafted wood block and if a knife can gloat, this one does. It's sharp, well balanced, and seems to know how to handle itself so well I wonder if it even needs the likes of me.
I fit in with the crowd in the jumbled knife drawer.
The figs come quartered in a Costco-sized bag which may last till my next birthday.
I draw the regal knife, feel the handle hewn from a wood I've never heard of-Chechen wood-and maybe it looks like I'm subduing the figs beneath the blade, but I'm not. I'm subduing the knife.
It came with as many credentials as the string of initials behind a heart surgeon's name on a plaque.