April comes like an idiot, babbling and strewing flowers

I have really sharp knives these days, but I keep cutting myself with them. No, this is not a metaphor for anything. A few months back, I bought this awesome little knife sharpener thingie for ten bucks, and it's done wonders on all my old, dulled paring knives. Plus, I got a couple of fantastic chef's knives for Christmas--never cut up an onion with anything less than a good, sharp, chef's knife; it really cuts down on the tears if you can dice that sucker in fifteen seconds or less--which has really made cooking easier. Sometimes I use a roommate's knife to slice up an apple or something, and I'm appalled by how hard it is. I glory that I can now, you know, dice ripe tomatoes (a thing which I like to do, as a preface to eating them.)

But I keep cutting myself! Yes, you can really hurt yourself with dull knives, and I've done that too (I once nearly crippled myself using a dull knife to slice a frozen bagel), but damn, you can really hurt yourself with sharp knives too. I've got nearly as many sharp knife-related minor injuries as I do cat scratches, and I am a person who likes to flip her cat upside-down and make him yodel.

That is all.



P.S. You don't stuff them, but ripe pears are orgasmically good sliced up and tossed with a little bit of lemon juice and some plain goat cheese. Be sure, of course, to slice the pear with a sharp knife.