For Valentine’s Day I asked for a cutting board. I’ve been chopping garlic and onions on the dining room table for years. My sister once chastised me for this habit. We were living in the parsonage at the time, and as I was chopping up food on the counter there, she said people who don’t pay for things don’t take care of them like owners do.

We’ve owned two cutting boards in our married life, a small, plastic white one that came in a knife set, and a larger wooden one that was one of my favorite kitchen items, both of them wedding gifts. Somewhere in my several attempts at minimalistic living, I convinced myself that we didn’t need cutting boards, extra items just taking up space.

But that was then, this is now, another “season” upon us. It’s that word again, always there, and there isn’t a name for whatever season this is. It’s the kids in elementary, middle, and high school season. It’s the married for a staggering, almost twenty years season. It’s the season of crowded counters and making my way around the land.

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