black steel in the hour of chaos
As the sac well knows, there is nothing more pleasurable than holding a magnificent tool in your hand. The illusion of mastery that washed over me in a wave of dopamine (and, ok, Fernet-Branca) as I used my new tool to open two feet of skirt steak like a book -- a beautiful meat book -- is what separates us from the animals. It is responsible for stupid things: the SUT, war in Iraq; and brilliant ones, like Lascaux, or Willie McGinest opening a massive can of whoop-ass on Peyton Manning last night. God, I love Willie McGinest.
Anyway, what was I saying? Oh yeah: thanks, dad. (This is purely rhetorical, as my father has no truck with the intersphere). Also, although you do not, strictly speaking, need one, and if you had real knife skills, you could accomplish the same thing with a cheap boner, a real filet knife will make you feel better about yourself.