You might overlook the paragon of craftsmanship nestled in my kitchen cabinet. This ancient device waits among bottles of cooking oil, canned goods and other products of industry, until I pull it down every other day. Look closer at this ordinary sheet of stainless steel folded into an oblong box, tapered at the top and hollow like a silvery cowbell. Its edges are rounded to protect delicate fingers, while an array of slits and holes on its various faces are meant to slice, grind, grate or otherwise reduce solid objects to smaller shapes.
Graters have existed for millennia. A bronze iteration is even used to shred goat cheese during an ancient Greek ritual in “The Iliad,” Homer’s epic poem about the siege of Troy. The modern form emerged in France in the mid-1500s, designed to show the masses how to enjoy hard cheeses, which were more abundant at the time. Today, my box grater helps me by converting blocks of cheese into forms that are more useful for certain recipes. But using it is also a kind of ritual, a thoughtful respite from the constant hustle of futuristic convenience.
The steel pings against a metal mixing bowl. I snip open a brick of sharp cheddar and the smell cuts across time, from my dad slicing a bar of white Cracker Barrel, to me following my nose and asking for a slice. That’s as far as he usually got, eating the squares or cleaving them finer for a batch of grits, but I’ve got elbow noodles bubbling on the stove. I turn the grater by its red plastic handle to the largest set of “teeth” — sconced above rows of irritating little spikes meant for zesting oranges or powdering spices — because mac and cheese does not call for precision. I’m an adult now. I cook what I want.
I rub the rubbery orange brick against steel, up and down, side to side, watching it slowly disappear until it’s gone. I repeat with a wheel of Gouda, then another block of cheddar, this one white, dry and flaky. Sometimes I buy whole bags of shredded cheese, little strings of milk and acid and time, powdered with sawdust to prevent clustering — but not if I can help it. I’d rather get closer to what I eat, to feel greasy remnants on my fingers like the Play-Doh of my childhood, back when I molded clay sculptures that didn’t have to look right. It was about the process. About staying present when screens begged for my attention. Big Parma would have you believe that cheese should be one more optimized, accessible, prefabricated product. A box grater says otherwise. And so do I.
Soon I’ll melt the gratings into a smooth roux amid bursts of steam on the stovetop. I’ll stir in the noodles, and add salt, pepper and garlic. I’ll eat one bowl and then another, certain it tastes better for my grating. But for now, I claw for a few wayward strands in the grater’s underbelly, each jagged, wild and perfect, and heap them into my mouth.
This story appears in the March 2025 issue of Deseret Magazine. Learn more about how to subscribe.