A few days before our private
cooking class with the well known chef (and author) there had been a deeply
unsettling disaster. As he was
transferring his starter, the basis for sourdough bread, it slipped down the
drain. The starter was at least a decade
old, and he had been feeding it all those years. So there we are, in my good friend’s kitchen,
listening to his story and looking at the new starter he had more recently cultivated. Because of the crisis, he didn’t have as
much as usual. But never mind, as a
longtime artisanal baker, he knew how
to make more. By leaving grapes on the
counter, and letting them collect the yeast floating around in the air…. well,
I forget the rest. But, I do remember
this. There we were, a bunch of us
around the counter looking at the humble beginnings of bread, in the form of a
puddle, at the bottom of his Tupperware.
And with us now, knowing his story, new found awareness of its
treasure. Not too soon after, our hands
were in the dough. I forget that year
but I remember that day.
And then there was the time
that I took a painting class. Well,
“class” would be an exaggeration. There
was the day I signed up for Family Camp’s arts and crafts workshop, a very low
risk adventure in the scheme of things. Armed
with a fold up chair, some oil paint, a brush and brief instructions, we were
told to find a spot and paint what we see. So I did.
I painted in that unfolded chair, in the warm sun. I painted the mountain in front of me, the
shadows on the lake (which were trickier than I expected) and the tall
pines. I forget the whole of that vacation week, but
I remember the warmth; the shadows; and the curve of the sand where water met
the land.
More recently, I volunteered
to make a poster for a non-profit organization.
I wanted it to look good. So I
called up my friend Karen and asked for her help. We decided to start by sorting through her
fabrics in the closet upstairs. And the
fabric that we find-- the one that is totally right- is made by an artist in
Philly, she tells me. We are cutting it
with scissors and stapling it to the cardboard, and I am wondering how fabric
is actually made. We make some tea and more
art, and I leave with something better than when I came; I leave with the
experience of creating something with my hands; I leave with the memory of a morning
with a generous friend.
So when I am walking down the
bread aisle at the store I think about a lot of things; like the giant machines
that are doing the work of the baker’s hands and the conventional yeast that
takes the place of the grapes. And when
I look at the mass-produced signs of paintings with words of advice about how
to live life, I think about my little canvas at camp. There are lots of things to buy in the world,
except for the experiences and the memories of creating your vision. And when you have a chance to use your
hands, to create something where nothing before existed, it is something you
will never forget.
