The Knife Thing

I present to you my knife.

This here is a Wusthof Classic 10-inch chef's knife. Standard CrMoV german steel straight outta the heart of Soligen. I found it in a pawn shop several months back along with a knife roll and a few other tools for sixty smackers. Since it's used, I know very little about it's history, other than it's somewhat old (how old I don't know, but the blade says Dreizack, which means it's older since the newer ones say Trident.) She was beaten pretty badly, with scratches up and down the blade, and a big worn out section of the edge where it's last owner had sliced repeatedly. Not pretty, but functional as can be.

Those who have some love for cutlery, or spend above average time in Bed, Bath, & Beyond, know this to be a knife of reasonable quality. At the very least, it's pricey and rolls off the tongue real nice. However, I'm not showing it to you fine people because of the name on the blade. I'm showing it to you because of the story that came with it.

You see, I had finally convinced myself to enroll in culinary school. For good or ill, I had decided this was something I had to do. So, I had taken the tours, gotten a feel for the programs, and started getting things together. Part of the culinary school wrap is the acquisition of a knife kit. Knowing this, I had spent a great deal of time researching equipment, hitting countless websites to dig up deals, reading reviews on the benefit of one knife over another, and so on and so on. I assure you, that nowhere in this fact-finding mission, did the name Wusthof even become a consideration to me. That stuff was too rich for my blood.

Then, one cloudy Saturday, I waltzed into a pawn shop looking for treasures, and I found a knife roll in a glass case. I was pretty excited about this, since I needed one for class, and because my obsession with cutlery was starting to build up steam. But, buying a new one is a pricey proposition. One of subpar quality was 25 bucks, a bit more than I wanted to drop. And this one looked better than any of those cheap ass rigs. So I figured, "Hey. Empty knife bag in a pawn shop. I might be able to pick this thing up for 15-16 bucks." So I asked the kid up front go grab it for me, which he promptly did. But when I opened the thing, I was in for quite a shock. Since this was no mere knife case, but a complete kit, loaded with tools, including the aforementioned Wusthof. This was everything I would need for school, at less than half the cost I would have spent had I bought everything new. While poking around the kit, I got my knuckle too close to the edge of that Wusthof, and it slashed it open on contact. I took this as a good sign (yes you read that right, me getting cut by my cutlery is considered a good sign in my sad little world.) So I grabbed the thing as soon as I could, and drove home figuring I had gotten pretty lucky in finding the thing.

I used the thing, finding it to be a well balanced, and competent performer. But the damn thing was big. Big enough to make using it a pain, so for months she sat in the kit while I relied on the knives I was more "comfortable" with. And in the meantime, I kept reading and learning about knives, and I had found out that the longstanding name of Wusthof had fallen out of favor amongst the cutlery minded. Reports of being "too heavy" and "too soft" filled my head, as I became less and less enamored with it. In many ways I began to disdain this knife, figuring that as soon as it got me through school, I'd dump it and move on to bigger and better things.

And then I had a conversation with a friend who changed my perspective on everything. She was telling me about her father's knife kit, which she had left unopened since his passing. And she spoke to me about the sadness she felt using the tools for which she had attached so many great memories to her dad.

It was the first time I had ever considered the notion, that a simple tool like a knife could be an heirloom. It wasn't just a bag devices used to chop through onions, it was a memory. And a cherished one at that. You never think that something as common as a knife in the kitchen could provide the kind of history until it's too late. At least I never did. Wow, if I ever get crazy enough to have children, my knives will probably be that for them as well. In a time where every death I've seen has lead to squables over who gets this amount of money and who gets this property, I hadn't considered that someone might want "dad's ol' cuttin' knife" when I'm gone.

And it made me wonder about the poor soul who had to give up this kit at a pawn shop. Were they a chef somewhere? Or was the person a student just like me? I wondered if they finished the program, and what situation would drive them to get rid of a good quality knife, something you can always use wherever you are. I spent a lot of time staring at that knife, studying the scratches and scrapes that covered it. This knife had scars, a history of being beaten and rough-housed. It had seen some shit before falling into my hands.

Then a realization hit me. I had always counted myself as lucky for finding that knife, but not once did I ever consider that maybe it was the knife who found me. It was only chance that I had walked into that pawn shop with cutlery on my mind. And being fortunate only goes so far when you find a kit that has exactly everything that I would need in this new venture. A venture which I still felt uneasy about. Now I had a kit that not only took care of my worries, but also secured the idea in my thick head that I would be doing this. I had something that clearly knew how to survive. Maybe, just maybe, me and this knife need each other.

Perhaps I'm romanticizing this all too much, but I don't care. It just feels right. I have everything I need to get through school, including the answer to the question, "Should I really be doing this?"

So now, I use this knife every time I set foot in the kitchen. I'm careful to listen to it, and adapting my hands to better work with it. The results have been pretty great. And I reckon the knife's pretty happy with the arrangement too. After a great deal of sharpenings at my unskilled hands, we finally found an edge we can agree on. It's been leveled and buffed, and while I can never get rid of all those scratches and imperfections (not that I'd ever want to,) I think the thing looks better than ever. Any time I use it, it gets washed and dried immediately afterward. And it gets wrapped in a silk handkerchief when I put it away, which I imagine is something it's last owner or owners ever did.

I still wonder what story this knife had before finding me, and will probably never find out. But I figure at the very least, while it's in my hands, it has a story that can now be heard.