Peeler

This is a razor-sharp, slightly rounded, rectangular, all-purpose, carbon steel Japanese “vegetable” cleaver—though it does not hesitate when cutting all manner of non-vegetables, as well. As if manually peeling produce (without hacking it into a small knob) wasn’t challenging enough, my mother always made the peels came off in one long, paper-thin, spiral strip. That was one kitchen implement we were never asked to use. There was a cheap, metal, swivel peeler in one of the kitchen drawers; it was regarded as the suitable tool for children.

I believe that the relationships in our lives form our identities. When we catch ourselves doing something the same way our parents did it when we were younger, it’s not because of some genetically-determined “annoying-way-of-doing-things” chromosome. Rather, it’s a testament to the strength of our first, formative relationships. We begin with our parents, but continue with our friends (“If your friend Jane jumped off the Brooklyn Bridge …” Well, actually, that sounds fun. Why yes, I might.) and our significant other(s). When a relationship involves moving in with someone, we absorb significantly more from the other person.

Some time after the end of one such relationship, it dawned on me that a fixed-blade peeler was one of the less-deep-but-no-less-valuable things I had taken away from that relationship. I had this realization when it occurred to me that I had no recollection of ever having bought my peeler. And then I realized that—having had the childhood kitchen that I did—I hadn’t ever seen a fixed-blade peeler, until this one.

This peeler is made unique by its flourishes. Aside from the aforementioned fixed-blade, it has a black, plastic, comfortable, adult-size handle. The metal from which the blades are punched (it has two blades, allowing either left- or right-handed peeling) curves towards a half-cylinder, while the tip comes to a sharp point, like a steel calligraphy pen tip. Running down the length of the metal semi-cylinder, from the base of the point to within a half-inch of the handle, are tiny triangular teeth. These menacing features enable the peeler to do double-duty, as a corer. So you can peel and core your apple. Intentionally or not, the serrated edges are also one of the world’s best fish scalers. Raking it across the back of a fresh salmon fillet sends a shower of translucent, circular scales fluttering into the sink. (Salted and carefully grilled to a golden crisp, this “bacon of the sea” is a special treat, good with other foods or alone … or accompanied by a cold, crisp, straightforward beer.)

Whenever I walk past a kitchenware store that has a shelf with peelers on display, I do make a point of looking for a similar fixed-blade peeler. Most that I see seem a slightly-less-cheap version of the old swivel-blade tool from my childhood, but nowhere near as distinguished as my current peeler. When my current partner and I moved in together, the fixed-blade peeler was one of the few items that didn’t integrate well into this new relationship. So now we own both the fixed-blade and a swivel-blade.

As parents who are still relatively new to the experience, and excited about introducing our daughter to the wonderful world of food, we’re often preparing small, computer-mouse-sized portions of meals.