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After years of procrastination and hesitancy i'm diving in, full force, into the abyss of hundreds of millions of blogs.
The mission:
The Potter's Kitchen is a blog devoted to writing about Food, Art, Cooking, and the overlaps that can happen among them.
So, a little bit of background info:
I was born and raised in the San Francisco Bay Area. Despite the fact that the Bay Area has been a hub of epicurean revolution for many a decade, I was raised in a home of largely processed foods, and a total lack of culinary creativity. Although I have an Italian surname that you can find on half the wine in Italy ( Bianco means white), my father's idea of Italian cuisine was overcooked pasta served with jared pasta sauce. Needless to say, my only range of criticism was between Ragu chunky and Prego with mushrooms. Pasta was a dish I despised above all others.
Digression: As a child I was subject to the chronic delusions of my father. This was especially the case in his supposed mastery of the culinary arts. He would regularly prepare "Pizza" for us as a special treat. The recipe is as follows:
1 package frozen pizza dough made with extra preservatives
1 jar of highly processed tomato sauce
1 handfull of "Italian Seasoning" especially dried out
As you can imagine the pizza had bold notes of cardboard, and subtle notes of charred oregano.
On one such occasion my father felt a flurry of creativity and decided to garnish the pizza with canned mushrooms prior to placing the deflated dough in the oven. After 45 minutes of baking, the resulting pizza was removed from the oven and took on the striking resemblance of a melted pool toy. My mother, both disgruntled and disgusted, immediately threw the pseudo-pizza into the trash and whisked me away to a fine chain establishment downtown. Upon returning home we found the pizza resting again on the countertop with half of it ripped away. At the kitchen table was my father, slimy pizza in hand, chasing the bits of filth with his beloved green bottle of rolling rock. This was the measure of cooking during my childhood.
I shouldn't complain too much though. My mother was excellent at cooking Tempura, a dish she had learned during my parents years in Japan, and she served up mounds of battered vegetables to the ungrateful cry of my father's "More Onions!"
So food in my childhood home was less than dreamy. Then there was my adopted family.
If I could have the opportunity to go back and time and meet myself as a child, i'd more than likely pat myself on the back and say "You're a smart kid, you know how to get what you need in life." Around the age of six I adopted myself in the home of my childhood best friend. It was truly a magical place for me. Their home was nestled at the base of a lush wooded valley, and was filled with exotic antiques collected from their annual travels from around the world. Evenings and weekends were spent sitting on their deck eating french dishes while listening to the sounds of Jazz and the waterfall constructed to flow by the table. It was my escape, my Shangri-La, and it was the foundation for my life long passions in art, music, nature, and food.
So what was I getting to again? Oh right...my past. Well, my adopted family was very persuasive with my parents, and at the age of twelve convinced them to send me to a summer camp with my best friend. That summer we were whisked away to...sing it with me " K-E-Double N-O-L-Y-N, that's kennolyn kennolyn" It was there that I had my first blooming. After years of being told to "Hustle Up Damn It," "Keep your eye on the ball..ON THE BALL!," and "GET YOUR HEAD IN THE GAME BIANCO!" from the countless fathers of my childhood nemesis, I was finally exposed to the team-less activities that would allow me to excel in my own ways. I was a champion fencer, could rock climb walls with no hands, and perhaps of most importance, throw pots as naturally as I could breathe. It was a shock to the staff, myself and my parents that such a talent should so naturally emerge from my tiny finger tips. And i've been throwing pots ever since.
Now a quick breakdown: I went to four schools in four and a half years for college. My focus ranged from Ethnopharmacology, to forms of conceptual art production, and my locations of study ranged from Hilo, Hawaii, to Florence, Italy. I finally ended up at Alfred University with the intention of throwing pots at the Top Gun of clay schools. And like an school of the elite, I was quickly turned off by what I call "Clay Jocks." I tried desperately to talk with my peers in the clay department, but being grilled on my method of wedging was enough to make me want to quit clay forever. I was fortunate to be accepted to Alfred's somewhat experimental BAFA program, a degree designed to specialize in both the Humanities and Studio production. It was during this time that I got hooked on Phenomenology, and began my obsession with the work of Robert Irwin. I graduated with the conviction that art wasn't to be produced in the studio, but rather in the office of the curator. In retrospect I should have studied with Michael Asher, but at the time I didn't know any better and applied and was accepted into the burgeoning Curatorial Practice program at CCA in San Francisco.
It was really moving home after years of living abroad that made me realize how fantastic San Francisco's food scene was. As a graduate student I spent much of my time cooking. San Francisco is filled with culinary delights, most of which are far too expensive to indulge in, so one becomes very good at becoming their own head chef. I spent years teaching myself how to cook, developing my arsenal of kitchen tools, and refining my palate. Despite my passion for food, graduating from the program left me utterly confused and lost. A dear friend confronted me with the question "If you could do anything, what would you do?" And I immediately replied "Throw pots and make good food in Marfa" Despite the fear of moving to a small town 3 hours from the nearest airport, my wife and I packed up our life and opened a pottery studio in the dusty Far West Texas town.
And this is where we begin.......
