"A dull knife is more dangerous than a sharp one," said a stranger to me as we perused the items on a market vendor's table.
I purchased a paring knife and a sharpener. The paring knife is used daily in our kitchen, but the sharpener? I never think of it.
Till recently, for some reason. So I sharpened the knife and, sure as shit, cut my finger while chopping fresh garden tomatoes for a rice and bean dish I was making for supper.
It was no big deal but did break open the next day and bleed all over and make it difficult to handle bread dough and pat and roll and shape it into loaves. They might be pretty ugly loaves, I thought, but then: Oh well. This batch is for Everett and he couldn't care less how it looks. And neither do the rest of us.
When Emil is here, he often likes to make toast for his breakfast.
I always say, "There's peanut butter in the fridge, and homemade jam."
"Mom," he tells me. "With other toast, I like to put stuff on. Yours is good with just butter."