Essay #3 - The Edge of Focus

Precision and trust, like sharpening a blade

When you sharpen a knife, you're not just preparing a tool. You're training your attention.

You hold the blade steady, find your angle, and move along the whetstone with quiet rhythm. It’s not fast work, but it’s not slow either — it’s deliberate. You stay focused, not because someone told you to, but because the moment requires it. Sharpening is presence. Focus. Precision. And trust.

In the kitchen, trust and precision are deeply connected. Not just in how you handle a knife — but in how you cook. When to start something. When to wait. When to stop checking the recipe and begin listening to what you already know.

I think often about timing, especially with things like fermentation. When a recipe says, “Takes 3 to 7 days,” it’s easy to feel intimidated — to close the book and move on. But that timing rarely means seven days of work. It might take just 10 minutes. The rest is letting it sit, letting it change, letting it become. It only asks for foresight — and intention. If you start earlier, give yourself space, the actual time spent in the kitchen becomes less. What once felt like too much, becomes manageable. Even calming.

Then there's precision — a word that can feel rigid, but isn’t. In the beginning, we follow cookbooks to the letter. I did too. My first was a Jamie Oliver book, and I remember how comforting it felt to follow each step exactly, trusting that if I did what was written, something good would come. And it did.

But over time, the more I cooked, the more I leaned into instinct. I learned to taste mid-way, to substitute freely, to know when to step away from the instructions and do what felt right. Not to recreate someone else’s dish exactly, but to express something personal.

That’s where trust begins — and where true precision lives. Not in mimicry, but in intention. Focus is the edge — it turns what feels impossible into your own.

We often think a dish needs to look like the photo in the book. But it doesn’t. If you’ve stepped into the process with care — if you’ve tried something new, adjusted the flavor, given it your twist — that’s where cooking begins to matter. Not as a performance. But as a practice.

And this is what sharpening a knife reminds me of. There’s not one right way to do it. There are techniques, sure, but ultimately it comes down to feel. To rhythm. You learn how the blade responds, how the stone sounds, how your hands adjust with time.

You don't just sharpen for the knife. You sharpen for yourself. It’s a ritual — one that says: slow down, pay attention, trust what you’re building.

Because whether you're planning ahead, plating with care, or simply cooking on a quiet evening — the edge matters.

And how you meet it defines everything that follows.