How a Chopping Board Imbued My Days With Greater Intention

(Yes, A Chopping Board)

When Lars and I got married, someone gave us a set of bamboo chopping boards. There were three of them, small, medium, and large, and they practically oozed luxury, at least in my mind. I loved the soft tone of the wood, the way chopped vegetables contrasted with the bamboo texture, the solid feel of the board.

On the packaging was a grave warning, inked in red to highlight the importance: HANDWASH ONLY. Apparently, you’re supposed to handwash all wooden cutlery, bowls, and cookware. I threw out the advice along with the cardboard wrapper.

I’ve always had a thing for efficiency, adhering to the G.K. Chesterton maxim that “anything worth doing is worth doing badly.” I figured it was better to wash the chopping boards in the dishwasher than to leave them lying around on the countertops for days until I finally worked up the motivation to wash them.

And so I did, with reckless abandon. The chopping boards—and the dishwasher—saw plenty of use.

Now, nearly three years later, the medium and small chopping boards are holding on for dear life, each with little fractures running through their centers. The large one gave up the ghost after less than a year. Cause of death: too many rough washes in the dishwasher.

I decided that I wanted to invest in a good, solid chopping board earlier this year. After a short stint of research, I decided on one made from Acacia wood. It’s beautiful—reddish-toned wood grained with blonde and purple. It’s hefty, too, weighing about five pounds.

Again, the packaging came with a warning label: HANDWASH ONLY.

The difference is that this time, I heeded the warning. And something surprising happened: I realized that it takes less than two minutes to wash said chopping board.

I know, I know, this isn’t earth-shattering news. It’s actually a pretty easy task. But taking the time to properly care for this chopping board has shifted something.

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The other day, I was shopping for a gift for my brother-in-law. We celebrated Christmas early this year, so I was running around trying to find the right gift for him. I was reminded of this article that I read on Substack back in October on how friction is the spice of life. How we’ve traded convenience and instantaneity for a whole lot of misery and aimlessness.

So, I’ve been trying to find different ways to build friction back into my life. To resist the pull of ease and comfort and try to do the hard, good things.

And let me tell you, the thrill of finding the only copy of Room For Good Things To Run Wild in all of Red Deer? You can’t put a price on that. The moment that I found it, hidden between books, was a moment of pure, unadulterated joy.

I swaggered up to the counter (I was running late, so truth be told, it looked a bit more like scurrying), prized book in tow, and when the cashier rang up my purchase, she informed me that I had qualified for a 25% off discount because my email was in their system.

Then, last night, while volunteering at one of the youth groups here in town, I met a girl. She looked oddly familiar, and so we struck up a conversation. Turns out, we’d seen each other at the store the day before!

And guess what? None of that would have happened if I would have added to cart and checked out with the convenience (and horror) that is Amazon Prime.

I think in our pursuit of ease and comfort, we’ve lost something along the way. Maybe even a piece of who we are. We weren’t created to pursue our own desires, to seek comfort, to be served at all times.

We were created for so much more.

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That chopping board that necessitates handwashing is just one way of adding a little friction and intentionality to my life. I don’t like dishes lying around on the counter and I can’t hide it away in the dishwasher, so nearly every day, I have to go to the extra effort of scrubbing the day’s dirt away.

And nine times out of ten, the act of getting started motivates me to wipe down the countertops, sweep the floors, and prepare the kitchen for the day ahead.

Small actions with great intention are the only way we can hope to change our lives (and the lives of those around us).

What would happen if we stopped idolizing comfort and ease? Stopped trying to escape the lives we have and instead fully embodied them, with all the messy, inconvenient, unfun bits?

What if we took the time to handwash our chopping boards?