Read Over Expanse and Time.

Read For the One Who Undoes Me.

Read The Final Breaking.

Read Gold Paint.

Read Iron Spit.

Read The Silence Between Notes.

Read Dandelion Dust.

Background Audio: Aerial Bliss by Dixon’s Violin

Read She is the Sea.

Read An Offering to the Fire.

Read Fabric Frame.

Read Saucer Magnolia.

Draft v.1

From executive chef at a two-star Michelin restaurant to preparing for combat with a tomato in my barely furnished apartment, I know exactly how I’ve arrived at this moment. Let me explain.

I’m sharpening a custom-made Damascus steel, ebony wood-handled chef’s knife that cost three times what I now pay in rent. I’d almost forgotten it existed after neglecting it for nearly a decade. I found it last Saturday, buried at the bottom of a large moving box labeled “Bedroom.”

I’m a newly divorced professional button-clicker living off cold cuts, takeout, and leftovers. I moved into my apartment three weeks ago, and I’ve spent the majority of my free time unpacking. Everything I’ve pulled from the corrugated cage it was crammed into had memories attached to it – some good, some not. Half now resides in a landfill.

I had two major interests growing up, and I turned one into a computer science degree. The other turned me into a chef. It was a career pivot that placed me precisely where I needed to be to cross paths with the woman I would eventually marry. And marry we did.

The demands of the chef life competed with those of the husband life, and I reluctantly acquired a grayscale office job as a keyboard ninja. My wife claimed the kitchen as hers, and my knife got shoved into the dreaded drawer of orphaned kitchen tools. She had her own.

On occasion, I would be summoned to fetch a turkey baster from the land of the lost ladles. And every time I caught a glimpse of my knife, I would be smacked in the face with guilt. It needed a resting place better suited for such a fine piece of craftsmanship – to lie among other items of significance, such as my passport and awards. And that is how it made its way into my shoebox of stuff on the top shelf of our bedroom closet.

Earlier today, I gathered the ingredients I’ll need to cook myself quality meals for the week. The tomato has nothing to do with food prep, though. I picked up this heirloom beefsteak beauty during last week’s shopping and intended to use it in lunch meat sandwiches. It shouldn’t even be here, but the knife had other plans.

There are a few ways to test the sharpness of a blade. One of those is with the skin of a tomato. Correctly maintained steel should be able to slice through it with very little pressure. Mine did not.

With no sharpening stone in my possession, I immediately ordered one. The whetstone took a week to arrive, which left me ample time to plan out my revival recipes. And to spend countless hours questioning whether my own abilities had dulled.

I’m standing in my tiny kitchen with a freshly sharpened, exorbitantly priced knife, wondering if I still deserve to wield it. I gently hold it to the edge of the Black Krim. I watch as the blade slips through its flesh effortlessly. Success is mine.

Read Whetstone: The Battle of Black Krim