The knife whispers harshly through the potato. A wet sound. A splitting of flesh, then contact with the cutting board, a dead end. Four cuts lengthwise and as thin as I can in the opposite direction. I grip the handle with my left hand and guide the potato with my right, fingers so so close to the blade. One hiccup, one hesitation, one involuntary twitch and --
Don't think like that. It's done.