There is a very male reaction that I have to my kitchen knives. No, not that one, that would be strange and you'd probably have to report me to the police. No, it's a result of a misspent youth watching kung fu movies to be honest. An endless parade of samurais, ninjas wielding swords and the like. To me these just aren't tools for cutting up veg, oh no, these are the very mark of honour. They are the end result of hundreds of years of sword making, the timeless perfection of honed metal, forged in heat and sharpened with loving care. You see what I mean? I can't help myself to be honest. Every time I'm cutting up tomatoes a part of my brain is in a Kurosawa movie, or that bit in Kill Bill in the sushi bar, the "..you speak Japanese" bit.
Obviously, I can't speak for all you blokes but I tend to see my kitchen in cinematic terms. It is inhabited by the Godfather movies when I making a pasta sauce, the whole hitting the mattresses bit, by the Sopranos when I have left over pasta and cold Italian meats in the house where I can stand and munch in front of an open fridge. That great scene at the end of Jamon, Jamon where the two lovers are duelling with the cured legs of ham makes me smirk when I have some pata negra in the house. Chinese food? Eat Drink Man Woman and Tampopo come to mind. Making linguini with my mum? Big Night. Eating a pastrami sandwich? Come on, you know. Chocolate spread or slightly bizarre fusion cooking? Life is Sweet. I know, I know, I'm a terrible geek, and I should probably just get on with chopping the onions. Actually, that reminds me of that bit in Goodfellas, "..he used too many onions in the sauce..."