An Oak Kitchen Board – Older Than Three Kitchens, and Still Not Done
by Jonny Grapentin
An oak board feels almost anachronistic these days. A quiet statement against short-lived convenience. It has lain there for years, unmoved by trends, while the apartments, kitchens and worktops around it have changed three times over. It has endured every move without complaint. It will probably outlive us.
A good kitchen board only looks passive to the inattentive eye. In practice, it communicates. The quiet presence and warm grain of oak extend a constant invitation: “Do something. Create something.” When it calls, it is not merely asking for the apple. It asks for the pause, the deliberate act of preparation, the everyday craft of making food. Even a cake past its best regains a certain dignity on its surface. Cut into squares, arranged on solid wood, it becomes a small occasion again.
This board is not a decorative object. It’s heavy, angular, and full of character. In a household with children, those are indispensable qualities. Where other surfaces would pick up dents from a bump or shatter on the floor, the oak remains calm. It absorbs the energy of youth without so much as blinking. The fact that it only fits halfway into the sink when placed upright is not a flaw, but an expression of its strengths. It claims its space. It belongs where life happens.
What makes it most beautiful, though, are the marks. A new board is flawless and silent in equal measure. After 13 years, this one has things to say. The grooves and indentations record thousands of meals, dozens of celebrations, the quiet rhythm of everyday breakfasts: a family’s handwriting, pressed into oak. It does not need smoothing away. The board is not waiting for recognition. It’s waiting for work.
Koshi – A Little Piece of Everyday Magic
by Felicia Nastal
Can an object really be magical? Beyond myths and video games, there’s a quiet power hidden inside a small bamboo cylinder from the Pyrenees – one that lowers our pulse and makes the world stand still for a moment. A homage to the Koshi wind chime, and a gentle plea for the magic of the unassuming.
The longing for magical things runs deep in human history. In the medieval Nibelungenlied, the cloak of invisibility shields Siegfried from his enemies and lends him the strength of twelve men; enchanted rings draw heroes in fairy tales and fantasy alike toward either ruin or eternal happiness. But what if such a magical thing existed in real life? Mine came into my hands more than a decade ago, when I was looking for something to serve as an anchor of calm for me and for the new life we were expecting.
It’s a wind chime called Koshi. The name charms on first encounter, evoking manga characters, Tamagotchis and the textures of Far Eastern culture. Its true origin, however, lies in the Pyrenees. Knowing this, perhaps you can hear the rustling and whispering of mystical misty forests like the Selva de Irati, with its thick carpets of ferns and moss. From this ancient weave – at least, this is how I imagine it – the sounds of this wonderful instrument rise and drift out into the world. They hover over baby cradles, fill the sleepy stillness of summer afternoons, and get caught in the net of a hammock. They offer comfort and create moments of happiness – as cheesy as that may sound.
With its delicate, glass-bead tones, the Koshi offers a quiet reassurance that everything will be alright. The notes feel conjured by elven hands, soft yet carrying an unexpected weight, even though it is only the wind nudging a glass pendulum from one sound rod to the next. Almost hypnotically, this unassuming object of fine bamboo sets to work: a moment of listening, a deepening stillness, pulse and breathing slowing in step with the notes until calm returns to an overstimulated system. That so much comfort can live in so little material remains, after all these years, astonishing.
The Koshi wind chime has found a permanent place in my life because it reminds me that magic does not need special effects. One day, it will hang somewhere else. Its spell will outlast generations.
Fiskars Splitting Axe – Close to an Heirloom / Not an Heirloom, But Close
by Manfred Schmitt
Some objects just feel right in the hand. With a splitting axe, that might sound like an odd thing to say, but there it is. Splitting wood suits me: the movement, the fresh air, the slow build of a muscle that knows what it is doing, and the reward of a woodpile that pays out in warmth through the long evenings of winter. After years of making do with inherited axes, I found what I was looking for in the splitting axe from Finnish manufacturer Fiskars.
The difference between a classic axe and a splitting axe is crucial: while conventional axes are designed more for felling trees or removing branches, a splitting axe has a wider, wedge-shaped blade and a longer shaft. This construction ensures that the wood is not just struck, but effectively driven apart. Ideal for splitting firewood.
For me, making firewood is more than just a chore. It’s a cycle: old trees from our orchard and garden, those that must come down, find a second purpose in the woodpile. Seemingly useless trunks become neatly stacked piles of wood. Visible, tangible, worked for with your own hands. This kind of productivity is deeply satisfying.
And then comes that moment in winter: your own wood crackling in the stove, spreading warmth and an almost archaic cosiness. You know exactly where it comes from, and how much work went into it.
As in the kitchen, the right tool makes all the difference. My previous axes followed the classic pattern: solid steel head, wooden handle. Fiskars takes a different approach, pairing steel with a modern plastic shaft bonded firmly to the axe head. In over 10 years of use, a loose or broken handle has simply never been an issue.
Then there’s the handling: the splitting axe sits brilliantly in the hand and is noticeably lighter than comparable conventional models. That makes longer, fatigue-free work possible – a benefit you should not underestimate when the woodpile keeps growing.
In the end, one thing is clear to me: good tools are more than just a means to an end. They change the way we work, make the work more enjoyable, and improve the result.
Words: Jonny Grapentin, Felicia Nastal, Manfred Schmitt Photos: TIm Eckermann, Manfred Schmitt
