Lie to Me

First, an explication of the loot:

One newsboy hat-gray.

Two shirts, a light blue lined button up and a dark brown pullover, from my sister, who helpfully explained that they could be worn together. My lil' sis thinks I'm a slob and tries to help me as gently as she is able. Her taste is good. I've loved all her gifts.

Some much needed cash from my very perceptive mother, a metal flashlight, and a box of Queen Anne chocolate covered cherries, which is my favorite candy because it was my grandfather's favorite candy, and I had to weasel it out from under his bed, or from the box where he kept his Ruger, or behind the cuckoo clock where he also kept the menthalated cough drops. I can't eat them at present, because my teeth have turned on me this season.

Two cd's-including the new Tom Waits set: Brawlers, Bawlers, and Bastards, and the new Jack White zombie-rock project: Raconteurs, also from my sister, who actually rocks pretty damn hard when the occasion calls for it.

A three in one clothes brush. This clothes brush is made from solid beechwood, with boar bristles fro the brush. The other side of the brush is a lint remover, and the handle doubles as a shoe horn.

I had asked for a truly fine knife, after a dapper sort of chap inquiring at the pub about pipes mentioned in passing that he had just sharpened his. The tone of his voice and the mesmerized look in his eye was convincing. This is really what I needed, and all I asked for, other than the perpetually thwarted request for a motorcycle, and I was fairly certain Mom would come through.

Instead, I got a fancy metal briefcase. I didn't mind. The briefcase was charming, and somehow fit the newsie hat perched atop my head. The name on the case, and these things are important, was BergHOFF and sounded familiar-not to mention German. It was heavy.

I stood up to walk importantly about with my new briefcase when I heard a chorus of "open it!" Ok, I thought. False bottom. Spy gear. A half suffocated ferret. Sixteen "TRollex" watches. I moved both combinations to triple zeros and popped the hinges. The top swung open and revealed an entire kitchen set of beautiful forged steel. Mom had gotten me a briefcase full of German knives, including a sharpener, and a magnatic wall rack where they can hang. I'm fairly certain I giggled while I picked up my cleaver, or rather, Hackmesser.

Now, these are not the knives of lifetime. Not a hand-forged Japanese laminated santoku knife that will outlive my children's children and hums like fine crystal or Viennese castrato when air moves over the blade. But I'm too young for such an object anyway. It would be wasted on me. I'd, no doubt, use it to open one of Pushkin's bags of cat food and Masaharu Morimoto would weep with shame.

I have a briefcase full of very sharp knives. That's a nice feeling. If only they'd given them to me before I made Christmas dinner using nothing but a dull three inch paring knife.