Although I grew up in Singapore and lived in China for seven years, I never learned to wield chopsticks with dexterity or skill, as if they were graceful extensions of my fingers. Get it right, and no morsel of food, great or small, slippery or sticky, is beyond your reach.

Instead of holding my chopsticks parallel and deftly manoeuvring the ends toward each other, I cross mine near the middle so that they pivot for better leverage. I would be told that this "X" signalled ill-wishes to my dining companions, which, of course, was not the case. Since I'm also left-handed (another ancient Chinese no-no), I figure I would just be considered an overall lost cause.

Even so, I felt a twinge of unease when I heard that a Chinese legislator was discouraging the use of disposable chopsticks for environmental reasons – and considering alternatives.

Bo Guangxin, chairman of state-owned timber firm Jilin Forestry Industry Group, said that the country produces about 80bn pairs of disposable chopsticks each year, made from 20m 20-year-old trees – an unsustainable burden on the national forests.

"To solve the issue of disposable chopsticks, I think we first need to bring a change to people's eating habits and urge everyone to carry their own eating utensils around," he said, "and secondly, we should gradually explore a replacement for them."

What that means is unclear, and how fast this will happen is questionable – there have been several aborted campaigns to halt the use of disposable chopsticks in recent years — but if knives and forks are to be that replacement, it will be unthinkable.

In China, chopsticks are as quintessential to life and culture as tea and rice or noodles (depending on whether you're in the north or south). When I lived in Beijing or travelled on assignment, using a fork was rarely an option, certainly not at the hole-in-the-wall eateries which served the most delicious renditions of dumplings, noodles and "homestyle" dishes like tomatoes fried with eggs, fragrant and spicy shredded potatoes, and red braised pork.

There are many stories of the provenance of chopsticks, which in some form have been entrenched in Chinese history for thousands of years. Many centre around practical needs – getting meat out of fire, speed, using whatever is around. There are also many superstitions attached to them: dropping chopsticks is bad luck, sticking them upright in your rice is taboo because of the imagery of incense sticks at funeral altars, and finding an uneven pair means you're going to miss transport.

Then there is the long list of chopsticks don'ts: don't point with them, don't spear food with them, don't use them to tap your bowl; only beggars do that. Among the favourite customs are using them to fish cooked bits of meat and vegetables from boiling broth while eating "hot pot" with friends, and serving choice pieces to show affection or respect, not forgetting to flip the chopsticks around to offer the side that has not touched your mouth.

When I was growing up, my parents and I used a knife and fork more often than chopsticks, slicing cleanly into meat-and-veg meals at the western restaurants they favoured. Singaporean noodle dishes were enjoyed, whenever possible, pulled high and slurped from a fork or twirled around its tines, Italian-style. Even when savouring one of my beloved grandmother's meals – steamed fish, soy-braised chicken wings, pickled radish stir-fried with sliced pork – I ate off a plate, heaping food onto a spoon with the help of a fork, while my grandmother held up her bowl and pushed rice into her mouth with her chopsticks in the traditional Chinese way.

It was only after my time in China that I had better insight into how integral chopsticks are to the country's identity. It would be a shame if that gets eroded. Knives and forks, whose use at the table is said to have been discouraged by benevolent philosopher Confucius because they were instruments of killing, don't have the same rich traditions and legacy of elegance and delicacy.

Even my crossed chopsticks and I understand that.