It's not the size of the cut, it's the story behind it.

I wouldn't call myself a great cook. Others would, but that's their choice.

Cooking as a hobby or passion can be expensive. Whenever I have a new idea to try or if family is in town, it usually exercises my wallet a little bit. It's well worth it when my victims, I mean guests are fully satisfied with my offerings. Mostly, I just get joy out of feeding and taking care of people.

I'm not big on fancy tableware or name-brand cutlery. Paper plates and plastic utensils are perfectly fine by my standards. It's what you put in your mouth that matters. As well, I don't go overboard on expensive knives. Anything that can be sharpened is good enough for my hand.

I tend to buy the cheapest cuts of meat as a challenge to see if I can get more out of it than expected. Ya, that's why. Oftentimes this requires a great deal of skill. Since that isn't likely, razor sharp knives can prove to be a powerful asset at mealtime.

Sharpening a knife is both an art and a skill that are passed down from generation to generation. Like some rare diseases, it unfortunately skipped a generation with me. It's not uncommon for my youngest son to be grimacing while watching me during my sharpening attempts and say something like, "Dad, I'm going to have to ask you to please step away from the knife" and take over the job. Once I have my population of rummage-sale knives sharpened, I'm good to go for at least one use on each of them before they require a touch-up.

Sharpening and using a knife are two different things. No, I'm not the worlds greatest sharpener, but I like to think I can whip a blade around like a culinary professional. There's something very manly about taking a big chunk of meat and carving it into portion perfection. On the other hand, do not believe them when they say, "A dull knife is more dangerous than a sharp one because you don't respect it as much" or some silly thing like that. It's an "old wives' tale" that gets repeated by people that don't work in the emergency rooms that I frequent.

While preparing and cooking meals I have been able to lower my emergency room visits to less than three times per year on average by using better knife control. It's been said that a person can tell how many meals I've served in the last week by the number of band-aids I have on my hands. I don't agree with this benchmark's accuracy, but I suppose it's not totally off-the-mark.

During my first ever cooking competition, I missed the judging and awards ceremony due to just such a circumstance. I was getting a rather nasty little wound sewn up by a doctor that hadn't had the opportunity and pleasure to work on me before, so it wasn't a total loss. I cut this finger while putting the finishing touches sharpening a knife rather than actually working on the meat. In this case, I apparently had it nice and sharp. I knew it was bad right away when I instantly became nauseated before I even looked at the wound. A trusted and well trained medical person was a couple booths down and agreed to give an opinion on whether it needed an emergency room treatment. When a seasoned professional like her says, "Oh good lord that's just terrible" I kind of figured it's time to pull out my tattered insurance card and find a driver that still had enough blood in their system to make the trip.  With another competition coming up, I hope there's not a repeat of last year's malfunction. My goal is to try to blend in with the real cooks in the area that actually know what they are doing and have fun doing it. This time I intend to see that only the swine and the beef suffer the blood loss.

I'm the guy they talk about on break

Quite a few years ago I had less than optimal eating habits. I didn't really pay attention to my nutritional needs because the enormous amount of food I took in assured me that I was getting plenty of nutrients. I'm sure it was flawed logic, but that's the way it was in my mind. Early in adulthood I discovered hot and spicy seasonings and sauces. They turned the ordinary into exciting and dangerous. It started out with a couple dashes of Tabasco here and there. Eventually, other hot peppers were given auditions on my beloved food. The interesting flavors of the spicy heat provided a side-effect I hadn't intended. I could eat twice as much because it tasted twice as good.

If one heaping plate of cheesy, meat-bally spaghetti smothered in garlic kissed marinara was good, two was better. When I went to a restaurant and ordered off the menu, my goal was to figure out the best way to get the fullest without appearing to be an obvious food addict. Maybe that's why I had four children. I would let them order adult size meals and then sacrifice my comfort and agree to finish their plates as well. To properly describe what used to happen when I visited an all-you-can-eat buffet would be best quoted by Herbert Morrison when he saw the Hindenburg going down in flames, "Oh the humanity!"

I knew at a young age eating like that was not healthy. Add the fact that I had smoked for 20 of those years and it's not so surprising what happened one spring morning that became my wake-up call to change my ways.

I woke suddenly just before 5:00am with a chest pain like I'd never experienced. It wasn't ambiguous like I could just ignore it or maybe make myself believe it would go away with time. I got up and put sweatpants on so when the paramedics came I wouldn't be embarrassed. I didn't wake up my wife because I didn't want her to fuss or be worried. To be honest, I didn't want a lecture while I was dying. I figured I'd just walk around the house and when the "big one" started, I would just yell for her and she could call 911. I did notice that while I was standing up the pain wasn't as bad.

Around 7:00 that morning my oldest son was up and ready to leave for his morning workout. By this time my wife was up and I informed her that I was experiencing some pain in my chest and it was serious. She asked me on a scale of one to ten what my pain was. I replied that it was eleven. I learned later through her admission that she was upset that my condition didn't wait for the clinic to open to be dealt with because it didn't cost as much.  Eventually she grudgingly told my son to drive me to the emergency room on his way to the gym and that she would be up after a while when she got the other kids to school. The concern was overwhelming.

I walked into the quiet emergency room area. The short walk from the car had winded me, so I leaned against the door frame and tried to breathe. A short time later, a non-medical staffer walked by and said, "Excuse me" as she moved behind me to do something inside the room. I said, "Uh ma'am? I think I need to see somebody" She said, "Oh? Why is that?"

Let's set this scene. It's early on a Tuesday morning. There's a large sweaty guy leaning against the ER door, bent over slightly and wincing in pain. A hospital employee basically asked me to move out of her way so she could refill the tongue depressors.

"I'M HAVING CHEST PAINS, THAT'S WHY"

She picked up the house phone and rang the front desk. She said (with a confused look and shaking her head as if not to believe what she was saying, AND right in front of me), "Ya, there's some guy down here in the ER, says he wants to see someone and he claims his having some sort of chest pains or something? I don't know" Within a second I could hear nurses running down the hall, lights were beginning to flash on the phone system and I was on a table with machines and things hooked up to me before I knew it. Beeps and clicks and other sounds filled the room. I was starting to relax knowing that I was in great hands. As I relaxed the lights seemed to dim. Calmness filled the room and it was now clear to me that I was dying. The Doctor was convinced otherwise and after two and a half hours of tests and the best care imaginable, he told a nurse to, "Give him 60 cc's of Maalox and tell him how to deal with acid reflux"

At this point I knew I had to change my ways. No more jalapeno's on my foot long subs. Believe it or not that actually did make the difference and I haven't made a fool of myself at that hospital since. Well, that's not true either, but not everything is able to be told in a public forum like this.