Cecilia's Commercial Kitchen with Artistic Punctuations

This time the spark is back and it’s time to write about processes.
Do we sometimes forget that it takes 6 months for the wheat that we eat to grow?
And what of the clay that our plates are made of? How many million years did it take for the natural processes of erosion (be it wind, water, frost, or earthquakes) to grind the mother rock of mountain valleys into particles so fine that even their electrons are exposed and in their nakedness naturally search attraction which gives to the soft, kneaded belly of clay its stickiness. What creative dreams the goddess of ceramics must have, she whose braids are a trinity of intertwined clouds, to have the strength to grind with the pestle of time these valleys or mortars of process in which we live.
Do we forget that time and weather are the same in many a native toungue: tiempo, temps (for we are natives too, don’t forget!)? And so how do we choose to measure time? – by day and night? by season upon season? by the steady swing of a pendulum? or by the dithering tempo of a crystal of cuartz whose caffeinated dance is codified into human caligraphy on liquid crystal displays and electron bombarded sheets of melted sand which freeze into glass? What seas of truth might we be screening ourselves from?

Recently I’ve been trying to figure out why it is that I always feel so rushed, so in a hurry, and so often dissappointed by what I was not able to accomplish in the day. For this reason I wanted to share these new processes of creation. If it takes millions of revolutions areound the sun to create the clay that was used to make these tiles, perhaps I can take another few moments of eternity to partipate in its evolution.
If almost all indigenous cultures (this includes the judeo-christian) measured time by phases of the moon, might we say that we have placed that moon on to the butchering block and split it into 24 exactly equal pieces? In our kitchens, do we each futher cut the passage of seasons into 60 exactly equal parts to serve a sixtieth of that as hors-douvres (sp!?) at this human cocktail party? Waith a second here, have we collectively slaughtered time?
Will the earth have to shake with frustration if we don’t learn to let ourselves be wrapped up in the soft white blanket of ocean spray and allow the lapping lullaby of waves upon the shore sing to us of eternity?
Until the next time we can light a fire and sip warm cinamon-scented apple juice from this year’s harvest together!
Shopping Cart
Scroll to Top