In which Our Hero shares a guest post with a beautiful finish. 

My partner wrote this personal essay yesterday. She insists it’s about countertops. I sense a clown-like metaphor. 

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I’ve been learning about kitchen counters. I’m redoing the kitchen in the home I plan to raise my kids in. 

I enjoy cooking. I grew up with a butcher block kitchen island. The wood is soft, warm, and inviting. I haven’t gotten that feeling from granite; tile’s got awful groutlines to clean, and fake stone looks fake. The wood does require some babying. If you place a hot pan on it, it might scorch. It’s also liable to stain and isn’t really germ-safe if you don’t maintain it – bacteria from meat can multiply in the wood if it’s not sealed well.

Soapstone feels more idiot proof. The stone is soft, warm, and inviting. Chemistry labs use it since you can actually light it on fire with no ill effects. I’ve done it – accidentally. It doesn’t stain or etch and is too solid for germs to permeate. It does, however, scratch and dent. I was worried this would stress me out.

People call this wear a “patina.” Think of the way a leather wallet ages. There’s a darkening around the spot you keep your cards. There are a few lighter scratches from altercations with your keys.

The patina is only visual. It doesn’t affect the functionality.

I think unintentional staining of a butcher block countertop could be considered a patina, but it indicates that the surface isn’t sealed properly and may invite germs. That’s indicative of functionality. But, honestly, I don’t put raw meat straight on the counter anyway.

I’ve been trying to figure out which things matter and which don’t. Before you try to hyperoptimize a process, be sure you’re actually optimizing for the thing you care about and not a correlate. Most things might actually be patina.

I remember making a crepe cake with my sister a decade ago – layers of crepes and whipped cream. She wasn’t layering the cream on evenly, so the cake wasn’t going to be even. I got mad at her for messing it up. Honestly, no one was going to care that the cake wasn’t perfectly level. People enjoyed it just the same.

My partner has started cooking with me. I love it. It’s a great way to spend time together – a collaborative craft that ends with something tasty – if I don’t hold too tightly to perfection. He doesn’t chop the carrots to all exactly the same size. The stew’s still been delectable; the chopping: half the duration of doing it alone; the company: impeccable.

Some parts don’t matter. Some parts do.

When we made carbonara, he was afraid of the bacon grease. I told him the splatters would sting, but were unlikely to create a large enough burn that would matter. It might hurt, but you won’t notice the next day. I expressed appropriate caution and reverence for handling the pasta pot full of burning water: that could fuck up the rest of your life.

I’m trying to get better at separating functionality from patina. The parts that matter from the parts that don’t.

I got my braces off recently. They gave me an invisalign retainers. I take them out when I eat. For a while I wouldn’t put them back in until after I brushed my teeth. I was great about this for three days, then lazy and would just not put them back in. I didn’t want to get tartar on them. I wore them less. I could see that my bottom teeth were shifting. Keeping my teeth in place is more important than keeping my invisalign clean. I’m now wearing them more.

My one-year-old niece has gotten into stickers. It’s adorable to watch her pick them out, peel them off, and choose who to give them to. I’ve got a few favorites on my phone case. They remind me of her and make me smile. I forgot one on a shirt recently. Some combination of the washer and dryer have embedded the adhesive to the shirt. Now it permanently reminds me of her.

I’m learning to enjoy the patina. 

I’m interested in learning to visibly mend clothing. To make the holes and mistakes into something fun and creative. To make the whole piece beautiful.

I’d like my kids to ding up the counter as we learn to cook together. To make a patina of memories. I want them to make mistakes. Scratch the counters. Learn and improve.

If we need to sell the place, we can always sand down the counters so the new owners can start over. No permanent damage. No limitations in functionality. Patina.