A highlight of my playdates is when I get to use my French mandolin, a kitchen utensil I’m particularly fond of. It’s a souvenir from my six-month culinary school exchange program in Paris. My fellow students and I divided our time between ecstatic nights out and long hours spent cutting, boning, gutting, cleaning, and preparing meats, poultry, fish, vegetables, and various other foods.

I acquired the mandolin during a short trip to Nice. As I wandered among the bustling market stands at the Cours Saleya, I spotted a craftsman selling handmade utensils. After striking up a conversation, confirming his ability to make tailor-made adjustments and placing my order, I continued my stroll through the narrow streets of the historic city center with a newfound spring in my step.

On the morning of my departure from Nice back to Paris, I hurried back to the market. The man handed over the mandolin. I inspected it from a horizontal angle, nodding approvingly. The man had beamed with pride. “This blade is sharp, with a tight angle. Other mandolins slice vegetables paper-thin. Not this one, Monsieur, this blade will slice a hair.”

He had been right. The slices are exceptionally thin. The mandolin extends the time it takes to scrape off layer after layer of human skin, muscle, and flesh before I reach the bones of my female playdates. Every now and then, their cries stop when they pass out. I have my ways to revive them. Ten fingers and ten toes, each a copious source of rapturous pleasure.

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