Dear Natasha,
My son-in-law is quite a cook. I would love to give him a set of professional-quality knives for Christmas. Can you recommend some good brands?
Hungry Mom in Turkey, Arkansas
Dear Hungry Mom,
Never give knives as presents. The gift of a knife is believed to sever the friendship. In this case, it might even sever the relationship between your daughter and her husband! Unless, of course, that’s what you had in mind, in which case any old knives would do.
Natasha
Horace Scroggins poured hot chocolate into a mug. “It’s my own special blend.” He glanced out the door of his office as if he thought employees might be eavesdropping to hear his secret ingredients. “I add vanilla! Learned it from my true love.”
He was too cute. I accepted the mug and made a fuss like I thought vanilla in hot chocolate was very special indeed.
Horace had always reminded me of Santa Claus. A petite man with rosy round cheeks and a belly that jiggled, 364 days of the year he wore a bow tie and suspenders, and at Christmastime they were inevitably red. On the day of the Scottish Christmas Walk, he donned a kilt and proudly paraded through the streets of Old Town.
I had never heard Horace utter a bad word about anyone. In his early sixties, he had a head of fluffy hair as white as snow. He always smiled, amazing in itself since he was married to Edith Scroggins, the most odious and unfriendly woman imaginable.
As an event planner, I didn’t typically handle small company gatherings, but for the past few years, Horace had talked me into arranging his real estate company’s Christmas party. It kicked off the Christmas season in Old Town. Horace had bought a magnificent historical town house for his real estate business many long years ago. His staff delighted in decorating it with a towering balsam fir in the two-story foyer. Scottish tartan ribbons curled through wreaths in the most tasteful and elegant manner, and groups of ruby red poinsettias graced antique tables and mantels. The muted colonial green walls provided a perfect backdrop for the tartan ribbons and bold reds.
It was Horace’s habit to invite people to whom his company had sold homes in Old Town Alexandria, which included half my neighbors.
He sat down in his desk chair. The weathered leather gave, soft and cushy under his weight. He drank from his mug like he was thirsty and smiled at me. “Always settles my stomach. There’s nothing like hot chocolate to cure whatever ails you.” He held a pink box out to me. “Peanut brittle?”
“No, thanks. Do you have a queasy tummy?” I asked. “The party is going very well. You needn’t worry.”
“You did a lovely job, Sophie. I’m just getting older, I guess. Can’t eat everything I used to.”
Luis Simon, a distinguished psychiatrist who had bought a home on my street through Scroggins Realty in August, popped his head in the doorway. With prominent cheekbones and sultry bedroom eyes, Luis was worthy of posing for the cover of a romance novel. He carried a cup of English Bishop, a flaming holiday punch loaded with rum and oranges studded with cloves. “Horace! Where’s the Scottish dirk you were telling me about?”
“Dirk?” I asked.
Horace jumped up. He steadied himself briefly, his fingertips on his desk. “A traditional Scottish dagger, my dear.” He turned to the bookcase behind him, took a tiny key from a book, and unlocked a desk drawer. He removed the knife gingerly and proudly presented it in his open palms as though it were a prized possession.
“An antique. The sheath bears sterling silver thistles.”
Probably hand carved, the sheath appeared to be ebony. I didn’t have to be an antiques expert to see that it bore the hallmarks of age.
He grasped the handle. A silver crown on the top held a large amber stone. Horace withdrew the handle to reveal a gleaming knife. “I like to imagine that it was really used, and not just worn for ceremonies.”
Luis whistled his admiration and took the knife from Horace. “It’s sharp! And heavier than I expected. You could do some damage with this thing.” He danced backward and extended his arm as though it were a sword.
“They made things to last in the old days, didn’t they?” Horace beamed. “Let’s find Babineaux. He wanted to see it, too.” He locked the drawer again and tucked the key back into the book.
They scuttled out of Horace’s office with the enthusiasm of little boys who had found a shiny object. I moseyed toward the buffet to check on the food. Guests couldn’t seem to get enough of the oysters on the half shell and rolls of salmon on pumpernickel with pink peppercorns and crème fraîche. The baked Brie with toasted pecans and fig glaze was always a hit. I couldn’t resist a taste of the melting cheese with a hint of salt and a smidge of sweet fig. Heavenly! And I had to try the seared foie gras with caramelized pears. The caterer had outdone himself.
I spotted my ex-husband, Mars Winston, gabbing with my best friend, Nina Reid Norwood. Everyone appeared to be having fun. I checked my watch, grabbed my pashmina, and slipped out the front door in search of the carolers I’d hired, shivering at the chill. Mother Nature had cooperated beautifully, sending us sparkling snowflakes. Not enough to have to shovel, but the right amount for perfect ambiance. In the spirit of the season I’d worn a red velvet dress, but it lacked sleeves. No matter. The pashmina would cover my bare arms. Besides, I didn’t plan to be outdoors long.
The carolers hurried along the street toward me. Dressed in traditional Victorian garb, with white faux fur trim on their clothes, they fit in perfectly on Old Town’s colonial streets.
They gathered in front of the door, and at the signal, I opened it and stepped aside on the sidewalk to watch them.
They began with “Deck the Halls.” The doors to the upstairs balcony opened, and Horace led a small group out to watch. I didn’t care for the blanched color of his normally rosy face. He still smiled, though, and listened to the voices blend.
But then he grasped the railing with both hands and appeared to sway. None of the people behind him seemed to realize that he wasn’t well.
Only when he leaned forward did they finally cluster around him in concern. With an enormous snap, the railing split, and Horace plunged headlong onto the sidewalk, landing directly in front of the carolers.