Japanese chef Masaharu Morimoto, of Iron Chef fame, once said a kitchen without a knife is not a kitchen.
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After spending a day at Tharwa Valley Forge, I guess I can officially call the place I cook a kitchen. For after nine hours of grinding, polishing, forging, hardening and sharpening, I have the most beautiful knife.
Karim Haddad established the forge in 2003, and more than 20 years later it's busier than ever. There are now courses for knifemaking, leatherworking, sculpture, blacksmithing, razor making and Damascus steel, among others. You can even spend four days in a "Viking Festival of Making", forging your own knives, helmet, axe and shield. The pillaging is in your own time.
Today's a little calmer. Five students and our instructor Tim Baker, who was once a student himself. We pick our knife templates and the fun begins.
My friend and I are cooks, the only women in the class, and we decide to make chef knives. The men go for camping-style knives and talk about skinning rabbits. I'm just keen to julienne carrots.
Haddad says all kinds of people attend classes at the forge.
"Unfortunately, most people don't get to be creative anymore," he says.
"We get a real buzz out of seeing people doing something they never thought was possible.
"You come in, start with nothing, a block of wood and a piece of steel and you walk away with something that's going to last you the rest of your life."
Haddad's journey started 30 years ago. He was working for Outward Bound when he met master bladesmith Thomas Gerner who passed on not only his love for the profession, but also his skills. Haddad started teaching in 1998, "and I'm still learning how to make knives", he says.
It's a full day of making, there's the nervousness about using power tools you've never seen before, parts of it are strenuous - a good hour spent hand polishing the steel takes its toll, as does the heat of the forge. Making something by hand, whether it's a knife, a knitted jumper, a dress you've sewn, or a cake, gives you a creature appreciation of why quality items cost so much. I felt the same way after doing a class at the Canberra Potters Centre a while back. I don't hesitate now to spend some money on beautiful handmade ceramics at places such as the Handmade Markets because I know the effort involved.
"Twenty, 30 years ago, if something was handmade it was kind of an insult," says Haddad.
"It was seen as something that was dodgy, but now it's actually something of quality.
"If it's handmade, or homemade, it's full of love and care, more people are taking the time now to make things again and that brings us all great joy."
He takes great pride in the group of teachers he's assembled.
"Knifemakers make terrible teachers in general, they're normally grumpy, they don't like other people, don't like people touching their stuff," he says.
"I find nice, patient people, people who can make people feel at home in the workshop, let you know that it's okay to make mistakes.
"It's not their job to take over and make your knife for you."
I am grateful, however, when Baker does jump in for a bit of hand polishing on a stubborn scratch. But otherwise you're on your own. I never thought I'd be confident enough to sharpen things (I have scars from a Christmas morning incident with a mandolin), or use a white-hot forge, not be afraid of flying sparks.
The whole process is so invigorating. So satisfying. I sand away at my wooden handle, shaping it to fit perfectly into my hand. I didn't know when I picked out these two pieces of wood that they would transform into this deep reddish brown, with the most magical of stripes. It's gorgeous.
"We're all makers, it's in our nature, humans make stuff," Haddad says.
"It's just that some of us have forgotten how to be human for a bit."