A new set of knives, just what the doctor ordered, or so I thought. The famous German name printed on each blade was a guarantee they would last the rest of my life.

The twisted truth is that my hands have to see what my eyes fail to and a sharp blade helps. I could glue reading glasses to my nose and still couldn’t get low enough to discern meat from bone. I enjoy a good steak or thick pork chop, bone in preferred, and a good knife to cut small enough pieces for aged teeth to chew.

Anxious to use the new cutlery, I was probably a bit too excited, almost dismembering my left pinkie altogether, sadly watching it bleed while the red flowed over my perfectly pan-seared porterhouse.



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