There's something therapeutic about cutting onions.

I don't know exactly how to describe it. I have gadgets to make the process easier, faster, but I don't use them. Why would I?

There's something therapeutic about cutting onions.

There's something about peeling off the outer skin. It feels like vulnerability, but without the personal risk. I can peel your layers away while keeping mine tight to my body.

There's something therapeutic about cutting onions.

It takes two hands. I love that it takes two hands. When something takes two hands, it forces the black glass in my pocket to stay in its lane. I can't use the electric rectangle when a task takes two hands.

There's something therapeutic about cutting onions.

I like getting to use my big sharp knife for something productive, something beautiful. I get to apply techniques that the Food Network taught me as a child. You leave the roots on so the layers stick together. I feel smart.

There's something therapeutic about cutting onions.

Every time I cut an onion, I get to decide what it will be. Are you going to be diced into fine pieces? Are you going to be large chunks? Thin rings or thick? Who will you become, Onion?

There's something therapeutic about cutting onions.

The second your knife slides through the crisp flesh, you smell it. The sharp, forceful aroma is enough to make your eyes water. The burn feels good. It reminds me that I am alive.

There's something therapeutic about cutting onions.

Every time I cut an onion, it is the beginning of one of my favorite dances: the dance of creation. It opens the windows for inspiration. It puts me on the path to a delicious reward, earned through my own endeavors.

There's something therapeutic about cutting onions.