Morning all. Hope you are having a good morning. I woke up with only the tiniest bit of a sniffle. It was glorious. With luck this is the last of the cold. I am so ready to go back to not really thinking about my nose or wear the box of tissues is located. So sniffles aside, let’s jump into the morning prompt. Timers set for fifteen minutes and off we go.
I like the character. Not sure what story I will use her in, but I can easily see her slipping into one. It’s nice to have characters waiting in the wings.
Thursday, February 12th: The edge was sharp.
The edge was sharp. Much sharper than I was used to. I kept the knives in my kitchen reasonably sharp. I sharpened them routinely mostly because I knew a dull blade was more likely to slip and cause me harm than for any professional reasons.
I wasn’t a professional chef.
I took cooking lessons, but that was mostly because I often ended up places where the food I wanted to eat was not available in the restaurants around me. I grew up with parents and grandparents who cooked. Each was from a different background and came into their marriage with a few favorite dishes their partner never heard of. My grandfathers could each make only their three or four favorite dishes but even they could make them. My father was in the military and while stationed overseas found several new favorites that he learned to make and brought back to the family. My mother often traveled for work and did the same.
It was a game in the family this learning of new recipes to delight the others. Everyone did it to some degree. Much of the family was long gone now and I made family recipes for myself and for the sake of memory, some of the dishes inexorably linked to the person who made them.
I traveled for work as well, yet lately my jobs took me to places where only generic chain restaurants were available. I was sometimes there a week, sometimes a few months. When I could I sought out regional and local foods, but they were becoming harder to find. The restaurants were all becoming generic. I was certain there were some people who reveled in the fact that they could cross the country and have the same meal taste exactly the same no matter where they stopped.
I found it boring.
The town I was in now I would be in for a minimum of two years. That was the length of the contract. If the area had a local cuisine, the locals were keeping it to themselves and after only a few weeks I could no longer take the generic offerings available for purchase. I broke out my own recipe book and started with some family favorites. I then expanded my recipe collection and added more ‘new’ favorites. I also reached the stage where much of my cookware was wearing out. When I repurchased I decided to splurge on a new set of knifes.
They were wickedly sharp, sharper than any knives I ever had before. They cut through meat and veg easily with barely any resistance. In fact the first time I used the knives a part of me was certain the food saw the blade coming and divided it self in terror before the blade could touch.
The knives made me feel as though I ought to be more professional. As a result, instead of forgetting my apron I put it on before approaching the knives. It was like donning a sacramental vestment before approaching the culinary alter. The knives and their sharp blades demanded respect and consideration.
I took more time, partially because I was using new recipes and new techniques, but mostly because I wanted to keep my fingers intact. I had a few cuts. Small things that at first I didn’t notice because of the blade’s sharpness. Often, I would see the line of blood on a finger before I would feel the pain. The pain only coming when the air penetrated the break in the skin.
As I was careful there had been nothing more than small knicks and cuts, easily fixed with antiseptic and a band-aid.
Ten til Midnight 