I'm scared to death of knives--can't even look at them. Forget about medical dramas where they cut into people, I can't even watch Mario Batali chop asparagus on Iron Chef for fear he'll take off one of his chubby fingers along with the stalks. So it should come as no surprise that the only two things I ever attempt in the kitchen are cocktails and casseroles. And the one that requires precision requires only this evil thing I call Knife for garnish--and that's what houseguests are for. It usually goes a little something like this:
Guest: "Is there anything I can do to help?"I then go on to explain that this "cool" ceramic knife is the one knife I own. And I don't even really own it.
Me: "Youbetcha! Can you grab that knife and cut some lemons and limes?"
Guest: "This knife is so cool. Where'd you get it?"
A few years back I was dating a very nice teacher I'd met on lavalife.com. He shared my love of Indian food and dared, for our third date, to travel to my Brighton Beach apartment from his on the Upper East Side to prepare my favorite Indian dish, Chicken Tikka Masala. He inquired about my knife situation and thought I was kidding when I admitted I only had one knife that I'd used as a screwdriver so it was missing a tip, in addition to being cheap and dull, very dull.
Long story short (here you fill in your own story that involves absolutely no sex and very little heavy petting), I lost Dan and somehow kept the knife. (It happens to also be missing a tiny bit of its tip because, yeah, I used it as a screwdriver, but at least it's still sharp as hell.)
Where is this story going, you ask? Well, it is going to tell you that today I just signed with a literary agency where a very cool agent will work to publish MY COOKBOOK--on casseroles, of course. And why am I telling you this? I guess out of a sense of self-pride, and also to give a little hope to people who have given up on that whole you-can-do-anything-you-put-your-mind-to bullshit. Guess what? Turns out it's not bullshit. A girl who's afraid of knives is writing a cookbook that might actually be published. What's next? Authors who can't write? Stupid presidents? The possibilities are endless. Though I will give myself more credit than W, and go out on a limb and say I can make a better casserole than he can make... a complete sentence?