My knife skills have never provided me with any kind of bragging right.
I watch with envy cooking shows where the star chef slices and dices an onion at an unhesitating pace and with laser precision. In the time it takes them to do that, I may have peeled and cut that allium in half.
I chalk it up to being left-handed. Us southpaws tend to be more accident prone, processing our world and how to do things within it in a backward way thanks to our dexterity. I’d love to nail that all-important knife-rocking motion that a cooking instructor tried to teach me, and do it quickly, but I’m certain it would come at the expense of a few fingers. So while I use my snazzy Victorinox chef’s knife with pride, I realize it’s a blade unfulfilled. It also might be mocking me, ever so slightly.