Karla.

 So, the below photos are well, pictures of a story. One about knives .Maybe I will add that here

as well....here is the story on paper.......some of it may have been changes as I come up with new words, phrases each time I write things down. This was always a problem for me , always thinking that nothing i wrote was good enough, as if it has all been said.

The Knives.

They hang at both ends of the small cosy kitchen. Some have storied histories and others

are stamp out factory regulars, but all are sentinels. They guide and silently comment on my

culinary career, offering guidance and remembrance each time I chose one for the task at

hand. Every year they are hauled out of the wood blocks, tabled and given a wash and

clean, sharp edge.

I pick up each one to wipe away the year’s layered dust and grime. I often pause, thinking of

where each one came from. The cooking stories, the positions held, and the places seen.

Many meals, diced , sliced, and chopped and remembered through them.

The rough handled boning knife gleams sharply as it peels back the chicken meat from the

bone. I then wipe the blade of a well worn butcher, hint in my mind that it was nan skanes

who owned it. Not sure, but it comforts my use. It still glides through the chicken thighs with

storied ease.

There is the medium cleaver, my first that I bought in Vancouver and quickly taught myself

how to wield it in multiple ways. I take the side and smash garlic easily and then use the

blade to scrape it into a bowl for the stock later on

.

I pick up a heavy cleaver and with trusted history, I crack down on chicken bones making

them into small pieces to fit the stock pot evenly. To brown and crisp on the bottom of the

pot.

Now I reach for a trusted chef knife. Nothing fancy. It is one gifted to me from new friends in

Tenerife years back as I sat on the sun bleached dock waiting for the Orlova to set sail for

Newfoundland. It has always been a friendly knife, always at hand, sharp, ready. A go to

cutter. Effortlessly I rock it through parsley and thyme.

The chicken stock steams the windows as I handle a simple well worn vegetable knife. I

think of the small, very old woman in Hanoi who sold it to me. How long had she sat there in

that noisy market, day in,day out, selling knives. I doubled back in that memory and

remember returning the next day to buy a few more of different shapes and sizes. Not

caring of the actual cost as her smile was an extra with no price tag.

Finally, little sailor bluey makes an appearance. Names so because its sharp edge was

often sought out on many a ship and often needed chasing down, Its brilliant blue standing

out in a sea of black handle parers, and easily spied out for retrieval. Now retired to home

paring. The well honed short blade shimmers around spuds, carrots and turnips, pulling

skins off with light quick turns and cuts. As if a knife could yawn.