cuts like a knife

Some time ago - I don't remember how long - I engaged in conversation with my good friend Darcie about the importance of good, sharp knives. In the kitchen, I mean, of course.

I recall I was cutting something at the time - a bagel or something - and had come through whatever it was, to reach my hand.

"It's a good thing my knives are dull," I announced. "I could have hurt myself."

Now let me just stress here – “dull” is a bit of an exaggeration. They still slice bread, dice carrots and accommodate almost all my chopping and cutting needs (not being a cook of any degree). True, they sometimes bludgeon rather than perforate tomatoes and other soft fruit, but they’ve accommodated my needs just fine – and without inflicting injury on me or anyone else.

However, Darcie said, more kitchen injuries come from dull knives than sharp ones, no really, true story, because you have to saw harder, the gash they leave is much sloppier and – I don’t know – you’re more careless, perhaps. And she should know. Her husband is a chef.

So for Kyle’s birthday last year, I bought him a good set of knives. Good and sharp. Since he’s an aspiring novice chef, I thought they’d come in handy in some of our culinary adventures, blazing trails my oddball assortment of knives would never be able to even follow.

There are four of them – a chef’s knife, bread knife, utility knife and pairing knife. And they’re handsome, let me just say – Wiltshire Stainless-Inox, all metal from handle to tip.

And boy can they cut.

Since Kyle moved them in and got them going, they’ve slashed their way cleanly through several apples, cheese, carrots, broccoli, ciabatta and more. Included in the category of More: two fingers (mine) and one thumb (Kyle’s).

Don’t tell me dull knives do more damage. I will not believe you.

Seven years – SEVEN YEARS – of dullness, and nary a laceration. The second time I used one of Kyle’s fancy-schmancy sharp knives, it sliced so quickly and effortlessly through the ciabatta bun in my hand that it didn’t want to stop. Whereat with blade, with bloody blameful blade I went a quarter of the way through my left index and took a gouge out of my middle finger, too.

Blood . . . everywhere!

No sooner than that one was on the mend, then Kyle took a chunk out of his thumb this afternoon while washing the chef’s knife he told me would be much safer to use cutting cheese than the bread knife I wanted.

More bleeding.

I'm not going to be stubborn and say that dull knives are safer when statistics may prove otherwise – but in my case, I’d rather take a little longer cutting my tomato then be so speedy taking my fingers off.

That’s all I’m saying.