I should have known how this week would go when I couldn't cut the cheese on Sunday.
I only wanted a couple of thin slices off one-fourth of a two-pound block of sharp cheddar. To go on my Roasted Garlic Triscuits, you know. I would not be partaking of Hick's Super Bowl snacks of wings, Li'l Smokies in BBQ sauce, pepper-and-garlic steak fries, Ruffles and Hidden Valley Ranch dip, restaurant-style tortilla chips and queso dip, sugar-free sugar cookies (yeah, I thought the same thing), and sugar-free oatmeal cookies. Hick has cut back too, you know. Didn't want our usual Super Bowl snacks of potato skins and mozzarella sticks and Velveeta/salsa/sausage dip.
Okay. I admit to three chicken wings. Woman does not live by Triscuits and cheddar alone, you know. Gotta have some protein.
That darn cheese was not cooperating! I know sharp cheddar is firmer than Velveeta. But this cheese acted like it still had the wrapper on it. That paring knife was going nowhere. I broke one of them previously, snapped the handle right off, trying to cut the cheese. So I pulled it back, looking around for the giant butcher knife (contrary to popular opinion, not used by Val to cut the tails off of visually-challenged mice).
It's ironic, (no?) that the wife of a man who runs a knife-making factory doesn't have a sharp knife in the house? That's like a cobbler whose children go barefoot. Like a cattle rancher whose children are vegetarians. Like a woman practicing the world's oldest profession whose children are not bast--. Okay. So Hick's kids are not knives, but they're plenty sharp. Unlike Hick's wife.
I glared at that uncooperative kitchen tool. Whoopsie!
I had been using the wrong side of the knife.