Dear Kitchen Knife,
We’ve always gotten along. I trusted you, I understood you, and I treated you with care. You were my knife of choice. Whenever I needed to cut meat or vegetables, you were there for me. I cleansed you when you were dirty. I dried you when you were wet. I put you away when you were lost.
The reason I mention these memories is because I’m confused. I treated you with the utmost care and respect only to have the delicate skin of my finger ravaged by your blade today. I am aware that things may have been a bit beyond your control. My husband may or may not have gotten carried away while sharpening your blade as he mimicked Gordon Ramsay. He also may or may not have warned me about the sharpness of your new and improved blade. He also may or may not have demonstrated the sharpness of said blade on a tomato while I watched and said “Oh cool.” Nevertheless, cutting my finger was uncalled for and rude.
The problem might lie in the fact that you don’t know your own strength. Not only did you cut me, but you cut right through the sponge I was using to wash you. You used to like being washed. Did people kick Jesus in the face when He washed their feet? Maybe on accident if He was too tickle-y. I digress. The sponge did nothing to you. And you destroyed him. Granted, his time was almost up anyway, BUT STILL. You do not control what goes on in my kitchen. You don’t make the rules.
Note: I feel like I don’t know how to properly wash knives.
I’m sorry to say that I will have obvious trust issues with you from here on out. Until you become dull and useless like your old self, I will be forced to use another, less aggressive knife.