Staring at my cache of 24 knives arranged in a menacing phalanx on the dining table, I ask myself: am I a collector or a hoarder? Neither, for I lack the compulsive passion of a collector who would go to extreme lengths to acquire a rare piece, nor am I a profiteer waiting for the opportune moment to sell my wares. Scratch out butcher, chef, and superhero, and that leaves just one option — a pack rat. Someone who saves things that are never really used, but have a personal value.
The ensemble, to be brutally honest, cuts a sorry figure. Unearthed from a corner of the shelf below the kitchen sink, they have been languishing for years with fungus, rust, and unknown bacteria coating their surfaces.
Each one is a gift from my mother, and their neglect cuts through me like a knife. Every time I visited, she would hand me a glistening knife on a platter, along with the bottles of homemade pickle and chips that I craved.
