“And this is my sushi knife.” I lean over as Anthony unwraps the paper cover to reveal the blade. I don’t know anything about knives but this one doesn’t have that wavy line marking the boundary between the tempered edge and the rest of the blade. The other knife had a temper-line also known as a “hamon”. My body flashes a mix of disappointment and disinterest. Anthony moves on to educate me, “It is flat on one side and honed on the other which gives it a very sharp edge... it allows a sharp, square cut.” He flips the blade to show me. “I bought this in Kyoto at the same shop as the other knife. It’s really good steel and will last forever. I can pass it on to my girls.” I look hopelessly at the simple, albeit elegant, instrument, “But it doesn’t have a wavy bit.” Anthony continues, “True, but this is a quality knife with a fine grain... And it’s more than that. When I pick it up it reminds me of the time we had in Kyoto.” He flips the blade over, “It has memories.” I glaze over. Anthony puts the knife away. Specialty knives aren’t really my thing.
I walk down the steps at the front of his house and notice a cracked pot from which arises the scraggly branches of an olive tree. “Oh, you might want to do something about that,” I suggest absently. Anthony smiles, “Yeah, pretty rustic isn’t it?” He points out the tree trunk behind the scraggly branches. Large roots have cracked through the pot and established themselves in the soil. “I saw that when I first came to the property,” Anthony continued, “Looks like someone put the olive tree down there then forgot about it. Over time the tree set down its roots [like a tree is wont to do] and cracked through the pot.” He paused for a moment, “I like it.”
I like it too.