I have a new chopping board and I don’t like it. My old board was ready to retire. It served me well for a decade. We were close. But the rubber stoppers on which it rested had decayed and the patina of its wood grown weary. I looked for its replacement for months, and finally came across one at a country market. The minute I picked it up, the maker’s tired countenance transformed. Though I knew the board was not perfect, my obligation to the man’s wellbeing won. I brought it home.

It’s not right. The colour, the shape and feel, the stencilled kangaroo in the top corner — my buyer’s remorse lingers. Each time I stand at the bench to chop it bothers me. I sense our relationship will only be interim.

Kitchen kit is a personal thing — chopping boards, tea towels and implements. Over time they bear the story of our cooking. Allowing new things to take their place is never straight forward. The English writer Nigel Slater understands:

“Each of these stains and cracks, scorch marks and chips, carries a certain beauty. They are the tellers of stories, the diary entries made by food and knives and pans, by heat and acid and pigment. The first knife mark on a new chopping board always feels like an injury, but then, as you work, more appear and the elm, oak or walnut starts to show its purpose and tell its own tale. Your oven gloves, bread board and cook’s apron begin to take on their own blemishes, stains and burns until they acquire a new workmanlike patina. Scars on our kitchen kit, like those on our bodies, are a sign of a life lived, and something to be cherished.”