The Board

Artwork by Michayla VanderPool & Anna Kastelan

Last Sunday, as I walked along the shores of Booker Bay, I noticed a cutting board amongst the driftwood and debris left by the floods. A myriad of thoughts bubbled up in my mind. Where did it come from? Who had used it and for what purpose? What meals had been prepared and shared? Did it belong to a family?

A twinge of sadness passed through me as I considered its history and legacy. Just an ordinary everyday kitchen item, the type of board that pulled out from under the benchtop; it had a lip that sat flush but allowed a finger hold to remove it, and a routed groove on its surface to collect juices. It bore the stains and marks of a useful life. Clearly, there had been beetroot involved.

Impulsively, I considered taking it home. But I didn’t need it, so I left it for someone else to discover and rehome, restoring it to its rightful purpose.

As I continued my walk, I saw other interesting displaced things. My mind kept returning to the board. What stories could it tell if it had the chance? Had it been one of my cutting boards, there would be tales of warm and crusty sourdough, endless sandwiches sliced and countless veggies chopped for stir-frys. There had been regular Saturday night pizzas, as well as the obligatory Sunday roast and, sadly, the odd sliced finger. My cutting boards seemed to grow legs at times and had to be rescued from the hands of my junior carpenter and his hammer. More than once some dear broken trinket ended up firmly fused with super glue there. Why did my trusty board seem essential to arts and crafts instead of cooking? Maybe it was my fault for ignoring early transgressions and neglecting to establish clear boundaries. Growing up, I remember my mother having a ‘very special’ pair of scissors that were emphatically to be used only for cutting fabric, no ifs or buts! I have those scissors now, still sharp and in mint condition, thanks to my mother’s firm conviction and steely expectations.

Perhaps I am too sentimental. After all, it’s just a hunk of wood…or is it?

Was it having an adventure, floating down the Hawksbury River, bobbing across Broken Bay before making landfall on the shores of Brisbane Water?

The next day I went back and the board was gone. Had it found its way back into domestic servitude with a new family? Or maybe, just maybe, it had been carried off on another high tide bound for New Zealand.