What a pleasant thing it would be to be a knife, always eager to take the path of least resistance, always drawn to the weak points, falling through tendons and skin and rinds like a blade of grass swept downstream. The knife slips and slides, skids and curls, leaving piles of tiny scrolls of orange peels, lemon peels, melon rinds, like a mound of curling ticker tape. It saws slowly against flesh, parting vein and muscle, tendon and gristle, breaking the goat cutlet down until it no longer resembles any part of any living creature. All you need is one good knife, and one good skillet, thinks Shara. With these simple tools one can create anything.