I am going to Kniven (“the knife” in Norwegian) with my grandmother, Margit. Kniven is a weekly meeting, and for the past 20 years she has met with her friends in the mechanical workshop in Oslo to make knives and drink coffee. They used to work together as teachers, on different crafts. I asked my grandmother if I could join, because I was interested in how crafting affects the community of these retired teachers.

As I enter the room, it smells of metals. I am greeted with a warm welcome and a lot of knives. The group members sit down and look for their current projects, while they put on some coffee. The coffee machine is placed on its own table, beside the workshop table. A full can of coffee is put on, and there is an impatience in the room for it to be done. They have their own cupboard here with cups, tools, and machines, only used for knife making in the evenings.

Jan is eager to tell me about knives, and shows me his collection. He seems passionate about the debate on industrialisation and craftsmanship. He believes in making knives by hand, but with the help of machines. Trond sits at the middle of the table. He is very focused, but listens to our ongoing conversation. He is currently making four knives that are an exact copy of each other, except for different initials carved into an embedded ebony eye in the middle. Right now, he is filing down silver to be placed at the tips of the sheaths. He has a good rhythm while filing. His movements are slow and long, as he uses the length of the file. His hands have begun to shake in his old age, so he gets help from the others to solder the metal pieces together. Apart from this, he does everything by himself: from engraving to making the knife blades.

Toril is the newest member of the group. She has found a sanding machine and it looks like she is about to sand some silver, but I'm not sure as she is wearing gloves. She tells me about how important it has been for her to work creatively since she quit teaching, and that her process now is mostly about learning how to use the sanding and sawing machines, and to feel safe with them. A new can of coffee is put on by Vidar, and a bar of chocolate is passed around the room. At the moment, Trond is the only one who is actually working on something. I was warned in advance that the purpose of Kniven mostly is to meet up and drink coffee. I think to myself that if it were only women meeting here it would be called a syklubb (a sewing club), usually used as a slur to stop women from chatting while working.

The laughter runs freely in the room; you can tell these people really know each other, as the conversations move seamlessly between stitching techniques, stories from when they worked together, their private lives, television shows, silversmithing, and inside jokes, which they sometimes take the extra time to explain to me as a visitor to the group, but not always, as it should be.

Trond has filed down the silver that is going on the sheath. He puts it on one of the sheaths, and passes it around the table. Those who have been helping him brag about the collaboration. When Vidar asks him if he is pleased with the result, he answers that he really is. Then Vidar calls back, ‘Such a shame you only have three more to make!’ And then they laugh. We discuss whether there should be a tiny silver ball at the bottom of the heart-shaped triangle he has been filing. There are some disagreements in the group, until someone argues that it has to be symmetrical, as there is a silver ball on the top of the knife for holding it inside the sheath. Now everyone agrees that there has to be a silver ball on both ends. Trond holds up his knife and looks at it, and bursts out, ‘I think this will turn out great!’ Jan exclaims, ‘I think so too!’

I have moved around a little and am now sitting beside Trond. ‘This is the mess of an 80-year-old,’ he says. I look over at his workplace, where every tool you could ever need is poured out over the table. He says he knows exactly where everything is, and his hand reaches into the mess and pulls out the file he needs. Margit is on her way to saw off some of the spare wood on her knife handle, and gets help from Jan to adjust the bandsaw.

Suddenly, after two hours, I find myself alone at the table. We've had our cup, or cups, of coffee and some chocolate, so now the work can begin. There is a meeting around the saw, and they share their gratitude when it’s done. Vidar is making a sanding tool out of a wooden stick and some sanding paper; he whistles as he makes his way over to the workbench, to sand. My grandmother shows me that her knife is smaller now, so she has less to sand down.

‘Even if it takes me five times longer, it’s fine, because getting it done fast is not what’s important,’ my grandmother says, while she uses an emery cloth to sand her handle. It hurts her back to stand by the bench or the sanding machine for a long time, so she has found ways to work without hurting her body. She is sanding poplar wood. She thought it would be softer, but is working away to find the right shape for her knife. My hands begin to itch on the inside as I am envious that the others get to work with their hands, but I have to write. I ask Trond how long he's been working on his four knives. He answers that time is not something to talk about, as long as you work neatly, but adds with a little smirk that he can hope to finish his projects before he dies.

Trond changes from sanding with a file to sanding with a fine paper. He asks Vidar how his project is going. It looks like he’s making a box. ‘It’s going well, but fucking slow,’ Vidar answers, and adds that his work isn't going as fast as it used to, because his body won't allow it anymore. He likes to make detailed work, and my grandmother shows me a picture of some lamps he made, which look art-deco inspired in light and dark wood, with silver decorations. There are some rumours that he built an entire church organ once.

Margit has just finished using the saw again and is continuing to sand it. Vidar has found a metal stick, which he keeps spinning between his fingers, since his project is currently standing still. Trond is now done with filing two of the silver tips to his sheaths, and is soon done with the third. Sometimes he drops it on the floor, but picks it up again and keeps filing. Suddenly they find another sanding machine — which they have been looking for, but no one is using — on the top of the cabinet. There is an argument going on, as to whether it should stay or go. It stays, but there is no room for it, and the coffee machine is more important, so Toril ends up taking the sanding machine in her car. Right when I leave, someone shouts: ‘The road is made as we go, both in life and with the knife!’