In Japan, the way you handle your chopsticks makes or breaks your etiquette at the table. As previously mentioned, there is a dauntingly large number of ways to be offensive with your chopsticks. A sampling:

1. Cramming chopsticks (komi-bashi)
Using the chopsticks to stuff food into and already-full mouth.

2. Dragging chopsticks (yose-bashi)
Using chopsticks to move or pick up a plate or bowl.

3. Piercing chopsticks (sashi-bashi)
Piercing food with one or both chopsticks in order to pick it up.

4. Raking chopsticks (kaki-bashi)
Holding a plate or bowl up to your mouth and using the chopsticks to rake the food into your mouth.

5. Hesitating chopsticks (mayoi-bashi)
Indecisively hovering your chopsticks over various dishes before choosing.

6. Scooping chopsticks (yoko-bashi)
Holding the chopsticks together and using them as a spoon.

7. Crying chopsticks (namida-bashi)
Letting soup drip from the tips of the chopsticks.

8. Striking chopsticks (tataki-bashi)
Tapping a bowl with your chopsticks to get someone's attention.

9. Licked chopsticks (neburi-bashi)
Licking off food that is clinging to the chopsticks.

10. Seeking chopsticks (saguri-bashi)
Poking around in soup with chopsticks, looking for its contents.

11. Pointing chopsticks (yubisashi-bashi)
Pointing at someone or something with your chopsticks.

12. Carrying chopsticks (mochi-bashi)
Picking up or carrying a dish in the same hand that you are holding chopsticks.

13. Roving chopsticks (utsuri-bashi)
Eating only non-rice dishes. It is polite to alternate a bite of a non-rice dish with a bite of rice or sip of sake.

14. Probing chopsticks (kara-bashi)
Touching food with your chopsticks, then putting it down without eating it. To do this indicates distrust toward the one who provided the food.

15. Groping chopsticks (koji-bashi)
Using your chopsticks to poke around in a pile of food, looking for your favorite item.

And that's only fifteen of the taboos! Though I've been told I am a polite and proper user of chopsticks, I am still a frequent offender of numbers 3, 9, 10, 11 and 12, though I've probably done everything on this list at some point. But obviously I'm not the only one whose chopstick etiquette is sadly lacking -- a school in Japan has begun testing chopstick skills as part of its entrance exam. I'd like to think I'd pass such a test, but my roving, pointing, groping, cramming chopsticks tell another story.

The crack of splitting waribashi, wooden disposable chopsticks, has marked the beginning of restaurant meals in Japan since the eighteenth century. Considering Japan now tosses out 25 billion pairs of waribashi every year, that's a mind-boggling history of what seems to be unnecessary waste.

Even the most elegant, expensive restaurants use waribashi, which seems a bit incongruous to non-Japanese eyes, like a fancy French restaurant handing out plastic-wrapped spork, knife and napkin sets. But the rampant use of waribashi is actually based on a deep-rooted religious belief which prevents the sharing of chopsticks with another person. Shinto has among its many concepts of defilement and purification the belief that anything which touches a person's mouth carries with it a bit of that person's character and if used by another person, could pass on a spiritual contamination that no amount of Listerine could ever wash away. Even within families, each person has their personal pair of chopsticks. You might say sharing chopsticks is like sharing underwear; no matter how thoroughly washed they were by the previous owner, it would never feel quite right.

So how to avoid contributing to the growing mountain of trashed waribashi every year while maintaining a spiritually pristine mouth? Carry your own chopsticks in a chopstick case! The one I use is small and imprinted with rabbits, but there are other, less girly versions available, like this slide-top box.

A final note about waribashi etiquette: it is considered somewhat rude to rub the freshly-broken chopsticks together because it implies that the waribashi are cheap and, therefore, that the restaurant is cheap. But a final note about chopstick etiquette: there are approximately one thousand ways to handle chopsticks in a way that is considered rude.

High-quality Japanese kitchen knives are forged from the same materials and handmade using the same process as Japanese swords. Back in the days of the samurai, the same craftsmen who produced katana, swords, also made hōchō, Japanese kitchen knives. Just as a samurai's sword was considered the embodiment of his soul, in Japan a cook's knife is viewed as the symbol of his skill in the kitchen. When a cook begins working in a new restaurant, his own hōchō moves with him and in the new kitchen the head chef may inspect the knife, noting the maker (engraved in the metal) and how well it has been maintained, forming an opinion about its owner accordingly.

As much as I'd like to carry around a well-made Japanese sword as a symbol of my soul and general toughness, I just don't think it would work with my current lifestyle. A well-made Japanese hōchō, however, would suit me just fine. So I attended the annual Sword and Cutlery Festival in the nearby town of Seki this weekend with a mission: to find the perfect knife.

A twenty-fifth generation swordsmith at work.

Seki, a sleepy town near the center of Gifu Prefecture, is known for its history of sword- and knife-making, and every year vendors gather during the first weekend in October to sell their knives, scissors, garden implements and nail clippers; people crowd the streets; and sword makers give a public demonstration of their craft. You can also buy your very own katana, if you have the cash.

After briefly checking out the forty-plus booths selling all manner of sharp and pokey objects, I narrowed down my criteria. I knew I wanted a nakiri-bōchō in the Tokyo style, not too big or heavy, handmade with an interesting-looking metal. With kanji on it. (Admittedly, many of my criteria were cosmetic, but I don't think a Japanese chef would protest my desire for something beautiful in the kitchen.) I would pay up to 5,000 yen, or a little under $50.

Nakiri-bōchō are vegetable-cutting knives, thin and usually double-edged, unlike most other types of hōchō, which are sharpened on one side only. There are two styles: Tokyo, which is rectangular, and Osaka, which has a rounded front end. (You can see a picture of both here.) Both styles are hard and sharp yet light, so they can do heavy jobs like chopping through kabocha as well as delicate work like cutting cucumber into paper-thin slices.

I finally found my knife at a booth fortuitously close to the jaga-bataa (butter-soaked steamed potato, one of my favorite festival foods) stand. It met all my criteria and was priced at 4,800 yen, but when we had stopped by the booth earlier the cheerful salesman had announced in English, "Discount OK!" and I intended to test this rare offer. (Bargaining is seldom done in Japan.) After some back and forth, we arrived at 4,200 -- but when he gave me my change, he threw in an extra 200 yen and a smile, which I promptly used to buy a jaga-bataa. The 200 yen at least.

Back at home, I had to test out my knife, even though it was nearly midnight and I was exhausted. My expectations were high -- this was the knife to embody my very soul, perhaps for the rest of my cooking life! -- and even then, I almost gasped when I made that first slice through a thick carrot. It was like cutting through butter. Or maybe jaga-bataa. Something incredibly soft and yielding, anyway. If it hadn't been so frighteningly sharp, I might have hugged my new nakiri-bōchō right there. After a lifetime of insufficient, poorly-made, flimsy, dull and ugly knives, I've finally found something worth taking care of.