I want to preface this by saying that before my recent chest pains incident, I don’t think I had required a trip to the emergency room since I wrecked my shoulder over seven years ago. It’s not a frequent occurrence for me. More often than not, I’ll just shake it off and hope that things improve on their own. And they usually do.
So I wasn’t too psyched to find myself there for the second time in about a month.
It was Saturday afternoon. I was enjoying the Michigan-Ohio State game and when it hit halftime, I decided that was a good opportunity to wash a few dishes. My kitchen still hadn’t fully recovered from the dual celebration of Thanksgiving and my daughter’s birthday. To cut her cake the other night, I opted for a long, thin, sharp, high-quality Japanese knife I have. I don’t use it very often. The information imprinted by the hilt calls it a “ham slicer” and I thought it would be the perfect tool to get nice, clean slices, piercing the cake’s thick chocolate glaze.
So I hadn’t washed that yet since using it. I had set it aside because this thing has a *sharp* blade. For all I know, this could have been crafted by Hattori Hanzo.
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