Repairing a maple cutting board

I'm lucky, and here's how I know it: People bring me stuff that needs fixing. They drop it off saying, "Lucky for you I broke this - it'll give you a great topic for a column." I'm always enthusiastic at the time.

Their stuff sits in my garage for one to three years while I write columns about stuff I broke long after they broke their stuff. I torture myself about whether they even remember I have their broken stuff, because every week has a Garbage Day in it.

But when I'm not sure what to write about, all I have to do is look at my big pile of broken stuff and pick a project. That fills me with an emotion that smacks of purpose, except it usually has no realistic goal.

Here is a partial list of the raw materials I have to work with, complete with enthusiastic quotes made by me when the item was first presented:

• A chipped crystal decanter; "I'll just grind that smooth with my Dremel rotary tool."
• A moth-eaten afghan; "I'll just whip-stitch that back together for you using matching strands from my vintage wool collection."
• An unassembled Swedish loom; "I'll just organize that baby's 562 moving parts in no time."
• A busted BetaMax VCR; "I'll just paint that black and put it in the road."

The item I chose to work on this week was a de-laminated maple cutting board. My friend Lezah (I've cleverly spelled her name backwards to protect her identity) blames this on her husband (you know who you are, Ecurb) who left the board in the sink under a drippy faucet overnight. In the morning, the cutting board was cloven in twain and so, nearly, was Ecurb.

Now, upon inspecting the de-laminated cutting board I saw that someone prior to me had tried to fix it, but they hadn't followed the cardinal rule of re-gluing, which is "Always scrape off the old glue first, Ecurb." My confidence was building.

I was even in good practice for this repair because I'd just recently cloven a laminated stool by leaving it out in the rain. Not that I'd fixed it yet. But sheer denial has a way of opening doors that aren't even there.

Steps

1. Scrape off all the crusty old glue on both edges of the defunct joint until you're down to bare wood. You shouldn't be able to see any light between the two edges when you press them together. TIP: Own a cabinet scraper, a $5 rectangular piece of flexible steel with the edges milled to a square, sharp 90 degrees. Place the cabinet scraper on the gluey surface, curving it slightly with your thumbs. Push or pull it along the length of the joint, creating sassy curls of dead glue.
2. Sand both edges of the joint to roughen the surface for accepting glue.
3. Set up a clamping configuration that will hold the boards pressed together tightly. The pressure must be kept on the glue for a minimum of 20 minutes. This normally rules out thighs as the clamping mechanism of choice, but exceptions do happen.
4. Spread LePage Waterproof Outdoor Glue (for any article that might see the business end of a leaky faucet or a thundercloud) on both edges of the joint and smear it evenly over the surfaces that will touch.
5. Press the two sides together and place the object in the clamping set up. The joint may want to heave up, so pinch each end with a smaller clamp.
6. Resist the impulse to wipe away excess wet glue on unfinished wood. It will leave a slick, shiny streak that mars the soft buttery finish of bare wood. Instead, wait until the glue sets up and then use your cabinet scraper to remove the bead of glue.

A well-glued joint is a sweetly satisfying little piece of mastery. The cured glue (or long-chain polymer emulsion for those in need of cocktail conversation) is actually stronger than the wood itself, so your new joint ought to outlast even my pile of broken stuff.