Cabinet of Curiosities: How I Outsmarted Geometry with Trim and Sheer Willpower

Let me tell you a tale of triumph, tragedy, and trim. It begins, as all great woodworking epics do, with a noble quest: build storage cabinets for the shop. Simple, right? Just some boxes with doors. A few shelves. Maybe a drawer or two. Nothing fancy.

And yet, somewhere between “measure twice” and “cut once,” I managed to invent a new branch of geometry—one where square cut is more of a suggestion than a rule and plywood edges behave like rebellious teenagers.

I don’t know who decided that 90 degrees was the gold standard, but I’d like to have a word with them. Because no matter how carefully I set my fence, no matter how lovingly I coaxed the blade through the plywood, my cuts came out looking like they were trying to escape the confines of Euclidean space and join a modern dance troupe.

I’d measure diagonals. I’d recalibrate. I’d squint at my speed square like it owed me child support. I even tried the ol’ “flip the board and cut again” trick, which only resulted in two equally wrong angles that mocked me in stereo.

Every panel had a subtle lean, like it was trying to whisper, “I’m not like the other rectangles. I’m special.”

Once I had all my “square” pieces, I began the sacred ritual of cabinet assembly. This involved a lot of clamping, re-clamping, un-clamping, and muttering phrases that would make a sailor blush.

I’d line up the sides, only to discover that one corner had a gap wide enough to store emotional baggage and possibly a small raccoon. I tried brute force. I tried finesse. I tried prayer. Nothing worked.

And then came the glue-up. Oh, the glue-up. Nothing tests your faith in geometry like trying to glue together plywood that’s more trapezoid than rectangle. I applied glue, clamped everything down, and watched in horror as the panels shifted like tectonic plates during an earthquake.

Baltic birch—beautiful, expensive Baltic birch—warped under pressure like it was auditioning for a role in a disaster movie. I ruined two sheets trying to get a clean glue-up. That’s $120 worth of regret and a new appreciation for drywall screws.

Enter: trim. Glorious, forgiving trim. The duct tape of the woodworking world. I began adding face frames and edge banding like I was frosting a cake made of lies and passive aggression.

Every uneven joint got a decorative flourish. Every suspicious gap got a stylish distraction. I used so much trim, I briefly considered renaming the cabinet “The Crown Molding Monolith.”

Suddenly, my cabinets looked intentional. Rustic. “Character-rich.” Like they were built by someone who understands that perfection is overrated and that trim is the real MVP.

And let’s not forget the drawer fronts. Oh, those beautiful, deceitful drawer fronts. They covered sins like a priest on speed dial. Behind each one was a drawer box that may or may not be square, level, or even fully attached. But from the outside? Chef’s kiss.

I adjusted them until they looked symmetrical. I added hardware with the precision of a NASA engineer and the desperation of a man trying to hide his crimes. I stood back and admired my handiwork, knowing full well that the inside was held together by hope, pocket screws, and a prayer to Saint Norm Abram.

After all, we don’t just build cabinets. We build confidence. We build illusions. We build storage solutions that whisper, “Don’t look too closely.”

Because woodworking isn’t about perfection. It’s about problem-solving. It’s about embracing the chaos. It’s about knowing that if you mess up a cut, there’s always trim. And if you mess up the trim, well… that’s what paint is for. And if you mess up the paint? Congratulations—you’ve just invented a new finish technique called “distressed.”

So next time you’re in the shop, staring down a sheet of plywood and wondering if your square is gaslighting you—just remember: you’re not alone. You’re only one drawer front away from greatness. And possibly one more ruined sheet of Baltic birch away from enlightenment.