I made a cutting board in shop when I was twelve, in seventh grade. The teacher, Mr. Bagley, gave me a particularly beautiful piece of wood to make it from (some kind of rare tropical wood which is probably now extinct and unavailable, he told me its names but I forgot), and when I had finished sanding and polishing it had a sultry golden glow, as if the flecked pattern was made of the cells of the former tree, dissolving into new depths as you tipped it to look at the light's effects.

"Take them home and give them to your mothers," he told us, "and tell them they have to USE them!"

Of course my mother didn't use it (it was too pretty, and she already had a bigger cutting board that she liked), but when I moved into my own apartment in graduate school she gave it back to me, and I always cut things on it with great care, so the wonderful wood wouldn't be damaged and more than it had to be by USE.

But now everyone uses it, especially my husband with his love for great sharp knives that can cut a deep line into it with every stroke. They all cut bread or vegetables or cheese, and leave the cutting board standing with whatever residue soaking into it and then drying, getting stiff with cream cheese or beef guts juice, and all those sorts of yummy things. The finish is long gone, the wood is sliced into a ragged, slightly furry, indifferently dull surface, except around the beveled corners (slightly uneven, but made with such care, sanded to such silky softness -- I still love well-finished wood, I have a habit of touching door frames or moldings with the back of two fingers as I walk by).

It's hard to give up that attachment and USE something, even when you are supposed to.

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