The Aichmophobic Chef

I love cooking. And I live in fear of knives.

I’ve always had an irrational fear of slicing myself wide open. I’m a pussy about pain in general, but even more so when it comes to the thought of gaping wounds in my own body. My aichmophobia wasn’t helped when, early into my second marriage, my wife told me about the time when she was preparing food as a teen and accidentally knocked a Ginsu knife off of the counter, sending the blade tip-first into her foot. I cringe even thinking about that. I cringe even thinking about thinking about that.

Perhaps “live in fear” is too dramatic. It’s not like I think my chef’s knife is going to sneak up and stab me in the heart while I sleep. Better: I respect knives. I’m all too aware that the same finely crafted J.A. Henckels edge that can slit potatoes like paper could also cleave off the top of my index finger.

Having never experienced a severe knife injury myself, I can tell you that they are the most painful form of mutilation imaginable. (I have a vivid imagination.)  Which is why, when I’m cooking, I treat even the dullest knife with tender mercies. When using them, I am Zen-absorbed: there is nothing but the knife, the food, and the distance between my free hand and the blade. When I’m not using them, I set them far (faaaaaaaaaar) away from the cliff of the counter, edge toward wall.

Hand cleaning (you don’t put your premium cutlery in the dishwasher with the peasant knives, right??) is a delicate ritual that approaches pampering: I wipe the blade as gingerly as possible, then pad it dry like a baby’s ass. After it’s clean, it goes back into the butcher block, where the possibility of it piercing my flesh asymptotically approaches zero. I say “asymptotically” because, well…I’ve seen Dark Willow in action.

Never underestimate a witch in your kitchen. It throws the safety quotient all to Hell.