I retrieved the block of cheese from the refrigerator, grabbed a cutting board with one hand and a knife with the other. Painstakingly, I dragged the knife through the once pristine, smooth block of Tillamook.
Suddenly, struck by inspiration and pluck, I said to myself, “Why am I slicing this cheese by hand like a chump? I have the greatest slicer sitting dormant on my counter (because I haven’t made room in a cabinet yet) just begging to be used!”
The movements that followed were as if they were within me since the day I was born. A large block of cheese was freed from its original form, lid and bowl were put into place, cord was connected to power and the pulse button was selected.
Nothing happened.
I remembered that I was new to this way of life. This luxurious device had to be coaxed and gently encouraged to function. Plus, the safety switch had to be in place. And after my hands massaged all the pieces into place, the motor sprung to life and the cheese dropped into the bowl below.
Sliced perfection.
I held the bowl of beautiful slices over my head and declared “Sliced! Cheese!”
“Thanks Mom. Bye!” She was gone.
Abandoned in my kitchen, I did not feel alone. I felt victorious. Sliced cheese was wrapped up and placed in the refrigerator next to the sturdy block from whence it came. It didn’t need to be said out loud, we all knew: the block, the cheese slices and me shared a long look at our hero who sat on the counter covered in the curled cheese ball remnants of its duty. And we all whispered, “Thank you, Food Processor. Thank you.”
