sharpening our lenten knives

I own only one sharp knife. It is small. Tuesday night I was told of its formal name: “a paring knife” and I was also notified that such a knife would by no means be sufficient for a “normal person’s kitchen”. My disinterest in all things culinary is nothing new. I’ve baked no-bake cookies and made 10 Minute Rice in three minutes. One boyfriend joyfully noshed on raw cauliflower after an earnest attempt to serve him baked eggplant for dinner, and another asked in his annoying Afro-British accent, “Have others tried to domesticate you, and they’ve failed?” - - Making me sound less like a woman who prefers to have food prepared for her and more like a feral beast. Somehow though, I have survived in the United States sans the ability to cook, and also without a television or an alarm clock, for what it is worth.

The controversy surrounding my paring knife and the frustration it caused Ben really got me thinking about the things people do in their own lives that cause me such distress when I am in their space. You know, those things that just amaze me that somehow they too manage to survive. Things like the oh-so-common Hansel and Gretel sort of trail of shoes and dirty clothes through the apartment that so many boys seem to be fine with. Or how my friends in the burbs choose to drive their two tons of steel every time they need something from the CVS around the corner. Or the fact that people say they don’t have enough time to exercise or write notes. How do these people survive, I wonder?

I guess they must have a nice knife collection.