Things that scare me...

Now don't get me wrong, I like my knives like I like my women, sharp and aware of French tradition, but one has appeared this holiday season, courtesy of the generosity of my dear sweet mother and stepfather, that gives me pause.

The construction is Japanese damascus and all of that goodness, and the design is all manner of fancified and, I think, fairly comfortable. The appearance is, I fear, more akin to a Klingon weapon or the knife Buffy used to stab Faith in season three.

Witness this:
She's fearful. The knife weighs half again what Boxcar Henkels weighs, and we know how that goes. In addition, as is common with Japanese knives, she's about three times sharper than what I'm accustomed too. Basically, if I blink I could lose a finger along with some perfectly good shallots.

The knife slices raw bacon pretty much with the weight of my hand on the blade. I don't think my fingers are that different from raw bacon.

Time to revisit them choppin' chops.

For further comparison, let's consider Boxcar Ladyfriend's knife. She prefers her cutlery like she prefers most things, pink and supportive of women's health.

Voila:

                   Cockroach and butter churn included for scale.

Boxcar L's knife is, of course, the pink Kyocera ceramic knife with added breast cancer research funding. Nice knife. Perhaps that's why she never cuts herself. ('Cept for removing a single layer of skin every time she busts out the mandoline.) Boxcar H., who's positioned up top of the photo, seems downright trivial in the face of Knife Of Death. Too much time with KOD and I'm liable to try and clean my nails with Pink Knife.

I suspect, once I overcome my fears, Knife Of Death and I will become very good friends. I like to cut things. My mother is very, very good to me.