The Butcher Knife

Similar to the actual knife.

I must be getting old and losing my memory because I can't seem to remember if I've written about things before. Today I was loading the dishwashers when I noticed a little paring knife that someone had carelessly thrown into the sink. Naturally I assumed my new grand daughter, Fajita, was the culprit, so I proceeded to give her the lecture about why sharp knives must lay by the outside of the sink rather than the inside.

I used to do dishes regularly at my grandparents house. Sometimes Grandma would pay me for the work and sometimes not, but she taught me to work regardless of the amount of money involved. She didn't have a dishwasher so all of the dishes were washed by hand in the double sinks in her kitchen. (She didn't have a disposal either, but her answer was to carry all that icky stuff into the bathroom and flush it down the toilet.)

She believed in hot soapy water even if the sinks had to be refilled halfway through. One day I plunged my hands down into the water and Grandma's big black butcher knife sliced right into my palm. It was impossible to see it beneath the bubbles, but the blood was pretty obvious. The cut was not deep enough to warrant stitches (at least that's what Grandma said) as she covered it with several bandages to stop the bleeding, but they did nothing for the stinging pain. I vowed then and there that I would never leave sharp knives in the sink for some other clueless child to find.

As I finished spilling my story to Fajita, she calmly replied that she had already heard that story and she was not the one who put the knife in the sink. I could have sworn it has been at least 6 months since I last told that story... but you know how it is when you start getting old, it could be six months or six minutes, and if you can tell a good enough
story, it probably doesn't matter.