The Blade and the Pot Holder

Nowhere is a honed proficiency in karate more valuable than when it comes to survival in the kitchen. It’s why martial artist Betty Crocker was so feared and respected by rival chefs.

Well, that and her Chocolate-Toffee Crunch Layer Cake. Yum!

Understanding where karate and kitchen skills intersect demands that we take a cold, hard look at this fighting system. But not too cold or hard, ‘cause whoa, dude, just be cool! We ain’t lookin’ for no trouble!

Karate teaches discipline, agility and timing. So does kitchen work, only there’s more butter.

The dangers that lurk in the kitchen can pose a far greater threat than those seen in even the most racist Kung Fu movies: sharp knives, cabinet doors, appliance cords, electrical sockets, my wife Denise.

Okay, I promised myself that I wouldn’t go there, but honestly, this column might be a cry for help. She’s trying to kill me! Has been for years. Let us consider how she treats knives versus how knives were meant to be treated, all while keeping our fingers tightly curled in and our movements slow and deliberate.

Although lost in antiquity, the origin of knives probably can be traced back to prehistoric times when early Cave Dad first warned early Cave Son not to run with that pointy rock because “yer’ gonna poke your unga-unga out, kid!”

This warning generally was ignored because back then, everything could poke yer’ unga-unga out. That gave way to the development of better, more refined unga-unga-poking-out implements and improvements to rudimentary knives.

With the eventual discovery of how to sharpen stuff came the Bronze Age and with it the Era of Stabbity Stab. During this period, knives came to a fork in the road with some knives choosing to pursue the culinary arts while the rest were left embedded in the bodies of enemies.

Which brings us back to Denise trying to kill me. And herself. And everything, everywhere.

While washing dishes, I encountered a chopping knife leaning against a corner of the sink, blade out, cutting edge exposed.

Here’s a helpful life hack: a knife blade positioned edge-on is invisible until all your fingers are sliced off.

Karate, developed by the poor, weaponless peasants of feudal Japan as a way to defend themselves, translates as “empty hand.” It does not mean “fingerless stump.” So, thanks to years of rigorous training, I had the battle-hardened instincts to scream, utter a stream of curses, and maybe pee myself just a little.

“You wish to share?” asked Denise with the cruel indifference of a racist Kung Fu movie villain.

Uttering one final pee-related curse I asked, “Why would you put a knife in the sink like that?”

“So that you’d wash it,” she said, then returned to counting the heavy taxes she’d collected from the peasants.

Later in that same Kung Fu movie, I cracked my knee on an open cabinet door.

“Why was this door open?” I whimpered in a highly disciplined, spiritually centered tone. Okay, mostly whimpered.

“Um. . . because that’s where people reach inside,” Denise explained in a highly disciplined, spiritually centered, whimperless tone.

Clearly, I was losing the highly disciplined, spiritually-centered high ground of kitchen safety. But like anyone committed to attaining mastery of the martial arts or who’s been married 50 years, I knew to be patient and await an opening.

That came when I entered the kitchen, first scanning all cardinal points for adversaries, and found Denise perched on tiptoe at the top of a step stool, her arm stretched fullest as she teased a can of tuna fish from a top shelf with the point of that deadly sharp chopping knife mentioned previously.

Directly below sat our doofus dog staring up, eyes wide, mouth hanging open, tongue lolling, thinking, “I know this is gonna work out great for all of us!”

Calling on my years of karate training, I inhaled slowly through the nose, then out through the mouth, and calmly said, “Say, hon! Would you mind not moving or breathing or even thinking for juuust a moment?”

Then I gently lowered her death hand, plucked the knife from her loose, mildly interested grip, and replaced it with a set of rubber-tipped, non-slip, dishwasher safe tongs – the kind that God made just for this purpose!

The dog sighed disappointedly. The chopping knife sneered evilly, “Next time!” Denise squinted absently at the tongs, then to the knife, then back to the tongs.

“Yeah, these’ll work, too.”

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