How did I live so long without a cleaver? More versatile than a Swiss army knife, more thrilling than a pocket fisherman. Whoop, zoop, swish ~~~ bread sliced, meat and cheese slivered, mustard smeared ~~~ smoosh, saw, sandwich!
I was hap-hap-happy with this slicing, dicing, chopping, whopping, cutting machine and then she said, “I didn’t just get you a dangerous Christmas gift (cleaver).” There was more. Hotcha! Was it a toque-tiara? Boss-of-the-year certificate? Nope and nope. Buttons and buckle (ho hum, I know, but not to me).
At any rate – a rate beyond the speed of light mayonnaise with this cleaver in my clutch – I am reborn. Kitchen crêche. The thing really does spread mustard like nobody’s bizness.
Happily glowing like a newly forged blade, I told my assistant about my cleaver crush and she grinned, “My father used to dip his 15-inch french knife into the mustard jar. That used to really piss my mother off.”