CABINETRY
Read time: 3 minutes
THE BONES THAT HOLD THE STORY TOGETHER
You know what a cabinetmaker hates about cabinetmaking? The cabinets.
The square boxes with no soul. The plywood coffins we build because we have to, not because they inspire anything. We build them because they’re the bones everything else hangs off, but on their own, they’re about as exciting as a one‑hole outhouse.
I’ve built hundreds of them. Hundreds.
And plastic laminate? Let me tell you about plastic laminate. I spent a full year — a year — doing nothing but laminate countertops and slab doors. Sheet after sheet. Glue, roll, trim, repeat. I got good at it. Too good. Good enough that they kept me on it because I was fast and clean, which is exactly why it was soul‑sucking.
Three years in that shop before I was allowed to assemble my first cabinet. When I finally did, I was proud as hell. That was a long time ago. Hundreds of cabinets ago.
Now I build them when they’re needed, not because I’m chasing some romantic idea of “cabinetry.” Let’s be honest — nobody is.
And no, they’re not “cupboards.” My college instructor preached that word like it was gospel. Nobody says cupboards in his shop. When Leo (my son and apprentice) goes to class next year, I’m buying him a shirt that says:
“PROFESSIONAL CUPBOARD MAKER.”
He’ll be so popular. And I’ll be blamed. Worth it.
But here’s the thing: cabinets matter. They’re not glamorous, but they’re essential. They’re the structure that carries the trim, the doors, the lighting, the hardware — the stuff people actually notice. The beauty is in the finished piece, the whole composition, the symphony.
The cabinet itself? It’s just the instrument case.
But you still need the bones. You need the structure. You need the thing that holds the story together. And that’s why I still build them. Not because they thrill me — they don’t — but because they’re the foundation that lets the real craft happen.
And sometimes, buried in all that box‑building, there’s a moment of quiet genius. A perfect joint. A dead‑square carcass. A face frame that clicks into place like it was always meant to be there. Those moments matter. They’re small, but they’re honest.
Cabinetry also teaches you discipline. It teaches you to measure twice, cut once, and then measure again because you don’t trust yourself anymore. It teaches you that a millimetre is a mile and that plywood will always, always find a new way to warp just to keep you humble. It teaches you patience, problem‑solving, and the kind of stubbornness that keeps a project moving even when the material fights back.
Most people never see that part. They see the doors, the drawers, the finish. They don’t see the hours spent making sure the boxes behind them are square, strong, and willing to behave. They don’t see the clamps, the glue, the swearing, the small victories.
Cabinets aren’t the star of the show. They never will be. But without them, nothing else works. And that’s why, after all these years, I still build them — not for the romance, but for the integrity. For the structure. For the craft that happens long before anyone sees the final piece.
Step inside Behind the Grain, if you’d like to sit awhile.
Taken at Nemeth Diamonds in Winnipeg. Built by Knotty Dave’s Fine Woodworking.
