The Chestnut Knife
Well, wait. Let me back up. My family always used to go to my grandparents’ house in
the country.
We made a habit of staying at their place the day before to help Grandma
prep.
At least my mom and my grandpa did; my dad was too busy watching the game
and I always joined in.
That didn’t sit right with me even as a kid. I felt the need to contribute. So one year,
I
got up early and decided I would surprise everyone by roasting chestnuts. I grabbed
a paring knife to start scoring them.
I did pretty well for almost half a chestnut before it
slipped. I ended up cutting myself across the palm of my hand.
I was lucky that Grandpa was a light sleeper, a trait apparently the rest of the family
doesn’t share.
He heard me crying in the kitchen and rushed me to the hospital.
While I
was sitting on the examination table, embarrassed and in pain, he sat down next to me.
“Peter, do you know that what you did was very dangerous?” he asked.
“Uh huh,” I offered, starting to cry.
“Do you know how to score chestnuts?” he asked me. I nodded again. “Next time, you
should use a chestnut knife.”
“Oh man, there’s a knife for everything,” I grumbled, flexing my stiff hand. Grandpa
chuckled.
“Of course. Chestnuts are very hard and shaped funny.
You want to use a chestnut
knife so that you don’t end up in the hospital every Thanksgiving, Peter.” I looked at
him. “You know, when I was your age–maybe ten or eleven–I did the same thing.”
“What?
Where’s your scar?” I asked. Grandpa turned his left hand over and pointed to a deep
ridge.
“It’s right there. I bet you thought that was just a regular line on my palm, didn’t you?” He
smiled.
“My grandpa taught me about how to use a chestnut knife. When we get home, I’ll show
you. And maybe I’ll even give you the chestnut knife he gave me.”
Well, we got home by noon that day.
Since we had time, Grandpa and I sat down next to the
fire and scored chestnuts together using our heirloom chestnut knife. It was gorgeous with a full
tang, oak handle, and an engraving of our family name on it.
That Christmas,
Grandpa gave me the chestnut knife as a gift. In the ensuing years,
I misplaced
it some moves ago. I can’t remember if it was between college or my first job, but I miss that
chestnut knife. Fortunately, a few years back,
I picked one up at Girolami Farms while ordering
some chestnuts for my first Thanksgiving with my wife and newborn son.
When he gets old enough, I’m going to teach him how to use it. With his chestnut knife skills,
I’m
sure he won’t be yet another Rothschild with chestnut-related mishaps. Even though it made me
feel close to Grandpa, it’s the memory that binds us, not the injuries.
