A few times a year, I find my sharpening stones, put them into soak, take my knives down from their magnetic holder at their station, and I put the knives through ever-finer grades of stone. From the most coarse, I send each knife over the stone, holding the form, honing the edge, and put it down.
I move to the next knife. Holding the form, honing the edge.
Keeping count of the strokes.
Wetting the whetstones.
My hands and arms tire, and the fine grit pigments small dots on the towel I use to hold the stone in place.
I rinse the blades one, by one, and increase the fine grade until the last stone.
It is small, and deep gray, and has characters in gold on the side.
The stone feels very smooth, but rubbing a finger across it too quickly will take some skin with it.
I finish off each of the blades, wash them, dry them with a cotton kitchen towel, the one with the red stripe down the center, and place each blade back in its place on the metal magnetic bar.