primalmommy on thu 25 may 06
At six thirty this morning, I started the fire in my cob oven. Since my
brain does not store information well, I have adapted: my bread books
lined up, open to the right page, and I painted kitchen cupboard doors
in chalkboard paint to make myself constant, daily notes.
The loaves went into the oven -- warmed by only the oven light -- for a
few hours of proofing. On the board, I wrote: "Whole wheat sourdough:
Yondo"
"South African Sourdough: Tubbs"
"Country hearth loaves: Meadows"
That was my reminder that the lovely Theresa Yondo porcelain bowl, with
the white dots on blue inside and the stripes outside, held this bread,
the Ann Tubbs Majolica was that, and the Allegheny Meadows bowl as big
as a melon was a third.
It made me think about the names I attach to things. My kids know the
names of potters they have never seen --- Connor asks for his morning
milky-decaf in the "David Hendley" cup. They know which cup is Mel's,
Tony's, Aerni's ash-drippy, and the "Hanky tea bowl". Ann Tubbs'
maiolica mug has a face and watches us benvolently from the shelf. I
don't know why it is important, who made them, but it is.
All these people are in my home, I see them daily. When somebody on
clayart ticks me off his/her mug goes to the back of the cupboard for a
while to pout, with an imaginary dunce cap, until I get over it.
I like knowing the source of things -- picturing the hen who laid my
eggs, using flour I ground here with tomatoes I grew last summer and
arugula the kids picked from volunteers in the garden.
I don't much care what folks call me. Primal, Kelly, Hey you. Mel always
turns Savino into Sorvino anyway, no doubt mistaking me for the lovely
movie star ;0) but I've only been a Savino for 16 years (this saturday.)
I like that when I go to Edith Franklin's house all her mugs have
potters' names. My mother's vases do, as well.
It's that ripple we all send out, having no idea where it goes...
teachers, friends, parents, change the world every day, in ways we can
only imagine.
Thanks, Hanky, for the poem...
My table is loaded with foccacias of every shape and size, carmelized
onion, calmatas and goat cheese, rosemary nipped from window boxes and
olive oil, arugula with tomatoes and parmesan. The fourth sourdough is
in now, then I push in a pot of chili, seal up the door, and go glaze
with ten kids at the guild -- before dinner, and then ten adults after
-- load kilns and mop and lock up, riding home late in the dark on my
campy old bike with the headlight. I like my routine. And the new wicker
handlebar basket I got for mother's day to carry my clay tools. Life is
good.
Yours
Kelly in Ohio.. Averill by birth, the A like in April... Savino by
marriage, accent on the "vee"... or if you're a telemarketer, just
mumble aaaaavrlsaaaavuhno and I'll know it's you. Mel can call me
whatever he wants.
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