Ah, cutlery.

I possess a full canteen of sterling silver cutlery -- service for eight! -- that lives in a special fitted box lined with baize. Most of our "family silver" -- yes, we had family silver -- was stolen in a 1983 burglary, but I inherited the remains (including a Georgian soup ladle heavy enough to inflict significant injury), and then filled out the set with pieces I swapped and haggled for. The box survived the burglary, which I have always been grateful for as it was made by my grandfather for my parents as a wedding present.

Sterling silver cutlery is such a class marker! It doesn't actually work as well as stainless steel, but of course its social cachet dates from before the invention of stainless steel so its functionality is not the point. In my family, owning and using silver -- which must be polished and protected from careless handling -- was a way to distinguish ourselves from the lumpen proletariat from which our forebears had dragged themselves with huge effort.

I still trot it out for guests and on high days and holy days -- God forbid that we should eat Christmas dinner with the kitchen cutlery! With the Wedgwood and the Waterford. I'm such a snob. Which makes no sense since we eat in the kitchen -- another thing my mother never permitted.

Jon Freeman, your sharp knife is your safe knife, as I'm sure you know. My grandmother used to scare me blue with her horrible kitchen knife, which skittered sideways over anything that presented more resistance than a summer squash.

That reminds me: our chef's knives need professional attention. Fortunately, the shoe-mender guy downtown sharpens knives really well. Not for cheap, mind you ...