It’s time for a ramble about this “pots and life” thing.

In July I began a post in which I wanted to talk about pots as signifiers, in the semiotic sense. (I first wrote that I wanted to talk about them as signs – and they are that, too. I offer no explanation.) Here’s the writing from July, nearly unedited:

So I’m sojourning in Ohio, doing architecture work for the summer. Glory be.

A modest transplant, for just a few months. I packed my clothes: for work, for not-work. A few books, some art supplies, my camera and computer and alarm clock. But somehow raised the question: what is home? What makes a place feel like home?

I left the art on my walls in Illinois; it’s an ever-shifting collection of my own works and arrangements of things. I understand them slowly, by living with them. It was time to start again.

And yet the question imparted another set of functional requirements that can only be understood by experimentation. I’m living in a home, somebody else’s home. I brought a box of pots, favorites. Somehow this was supposed to remind me – but of what? What and where is home?

At some moments, a pot takes the place of one not present. This points to home as constructed of associations. Well, maybe sometimes it is.

The house where I’m living is someone’s home. She’s a cool lady, a couple decades my senior. It feels like a home, and it’s a home that’s easy for me to be in. Pleasant, a little cluttered. It evidences someone else’s life, the mark of her hand, the mark of her self, as homes are wont to do. It’s a life to which I’m sympathetic, and I’m comfortable there. It’s a temporary thing, of course, and an improvised one. Is it possible to be at home under such conditions? Is it possible not to? In the last couple of years, I’ve found myself at ease most anywhere, and equally at home, and equally aware of the impermanence of my presence. I venture no explanation.

So how do my own marks of home fit in? They have their place. My big summer teabowl, one I made – I drink a pile of green tea from it, most nights. It’s become part of a new ritual. Vessels are holders of space and makers of place, ones you can take with you.

***

Vessels also belong to memories. Of people, of events, of interactions, of relationships – we’ve moved on, we’re still in touch – each object has an indexical relationship to my life, as I remember it. Function transcends utility.

Tonight I took a photograph for Pots and Life – the first, and maybe not the last – that involves no handmade pottery. I ate and sat and pondered that. It’s not only about the pot, not only about its role and about its material existence, but also about the ritual. Tonight I performed the ritual of preparing and presenting a meal. I performed for an audience of one, and honored and celebrated said performance by enjoying the meal.

A plated meal, a solitary evening. Why the photograph? It isn’t only the quiet, it isn’t only the slowness: it is every other careful meal in my memory. Writing this, meals from my last years in Chicago start to flood my memory. What I meant to write about were dinners when I was a kid – family dinner, six o’clock, every night. Mom nearly always cooked – occasionally, as a treat, we’d order pizza. I know now how unusual that was, on all fronts. And strung through the years are the twinkling memories of bigger family dinners, with grandparents and extended family – as I reminisce about people and places and occasions. (Even more unusual is a family that’s loving, that gets along.)

So there you have it: food, pots, meals, rituals, memory, community.

Food and cooking notes for tonight:
Salmon teriyaki, jasmine rice, green beans, sake, green tea. Dessert, to be made later in the evening: fried banana. Teriyaki sauce is easy: 7 parts each soy sauce, mirin, and sake, and one part sugar. Just buy them, they are good indefinitely. Buy some seasoned rice vinegar and you’ll be set for making sushi rice, too. (Yes, I can do that too.) Japanese soy sauce tastes different than Chinese, but most people have Chinese soy sauce around, and that’s fine to use. Cooking is not an exact science; consider the proportions as a guideline. Bring the mixture to a boil, stir to dissolve the sugar, then reduce (keep stirring) over medium to low heat. Tea: loose tea is still amazing, but use cooler water – if the tea goes yellow, the water is too hot and you’re getting tannins in your tea, which is what makes tea bitter. The lower the temperature, the longer the steeping time. If you like bitter tea, though, go for it. Temperature: 140-165 degrees is what they say; I just use water that’s uncomfortably hot to touch, but not scalding. Fried banana: probably not so Japanese. Slice a banana into 1/2″ slices. Brown some butter in a heavy pan. Once the pan’s hot, set the slices on the butter, try not to stick them to the bottom of the pan, and slide them around now and again. Once brown on one side, flip them. Chopsticks are good for this (really, they’re good for most cooking things, if you can use chopsticks… and they don’t scratch nonstick pans, either). Brown the other side. Butter keeps the banana from sticking. Cooking the banana brings out its sweetness, but cooking it too long will get it mushy, which isn’t as nice – hence the heavy pan. When the second side is brown, you’re done – move the banana and a little butter onto a dish, sprinkle with brown sugar, and enjoy. Enjoy with ice cream, if desired. Do not burn thyself, particularly not with sticky sugar. It would be unpleasant.

(A word on numbering: the July post is Vol. 15. There are several photos from between then and now that I’m not posting at present, and tonight’s photo – included here – is Vol. 20.)