Focacciart

My Still Life with Veggies

“I like the feeling of being able to confront an experience and resolve it as art.”—Eudora Welty

Eudora Welty is one of my favorite writers. She was a master of the short story and the novella, the brevity of which I, with my ADHD, find endearing. Her backdrop was the mid-20^th century American South, her subjects the (many) eccentric characters to be found there. I direct you to any of her works—there’s the Pulitzer-winning The Optimist’s Daughter, but then there’s also The Robber Bridegroom and The Ponder Heart and Delta Wedding and and and…

 

I love the above quote, and the image of Eudora doing battle with her experiences (which we all do, no?), trying to wrest meaning and beauty from them. There are times when we are the losers, and we emerge from the conflict bruised, battered, and as confused as ever. But there are other times when we engage with some really tough stuff, and find the nugget of meaning and beauty hidden within. 

 

So what does this have to do with Focaccia Art?

 

During the height of the pandemic, a lot of us creative types struggled to make artistic sense of the difficulties we were facing. I know I wrote a lot, including several one-post-per-day blogathons. Others (like my Rose) returned to pursuits such as sewing, or picked up dusty musical instruments to practice. Still others began or continued rigorous fitness regimens, or adopted pets. Many of us emerged from the darkness of COVID lockdowns with new insights; some of us emerged with unwelcome new poundage as well (not ME. Some of us. Well, OK. Me.)

 

As much time as I spent in my kitchen whipping up calories, though, it never occurred to me to use a slab of bread dough as a canvas for vegetable art. But it was, apparently, a 2020 thing. I recently stumbled upon several Pinterest pages of gorgeous designs crafted with peppers and olives and parsley sprigs. Amazing!! It was like that ephemeral Buddhist sand art (painstakingly created, and quickly destroyed), but edible. I decided to give decorative focaccia a whirl last week when Patrick and Ashlyn came for dinner. The whole process is very Zen: you can’t begin to place your designs until after the second dough rising, and then you only have about 30 minutes to complete your handiwork and get it in the oven (over-risen bread dough is a flop). I sketched out my flower garden, then carefully (but hastily) placed each item. 

 

I was inordinately proud of my baked result (though it was very “loving hands at home,” compared to the kitchen artistes who duplicate Monet water lilies and Van Gogh starry nights.) And my culinary experiment lacked the poignancy of those created in those weeks and months of isolation (I could run out, unmasked, to buy more yeast any time). But nevertheless I, like my idol Eudora, did confront an experience--in my case, dinner for loved ones--and resolved it as a sliced red onion that looked, if you squinted, if not like art, at least a teensy bit like a tulip. 

 

 

The Optimist's Daughter by Eudora Welty

 

 

 

 

Taking the Fifth (and the Second)

Aiden first day of kindergarten, September 2019

While much of my elementary school experience is a mental mush, for some reason my recall of both second and fifth grades is clear. In second grade at Epiphany School, I was just six years old. Academically I excelled (though the 1963 curriculum for grade 2 is more like what today’s toddlers are expected to tackle). There was lots of Dick, Jane, Spot and Puff (Puff? Was that the cat?), some SUPER simple math, and our first spelling bees (which I adored). Oh, and the Baltimore Catechism, which we parroted without a clue about what we were saying: #57: Q. What is venial sin? A. Venial sin is a slight offense against the law of God in matters of less importance, or in matters of great importance it is an offense committed without sufficient reflection or full consent of the will. Alrighty then.   

My teacher was Alice Mullally, whose name sounds sweet and mellifluous, but who was actually a tough cookie. Miss Mullally had taught my dad back in the Mesozoic Era; when I asked Dad what he remembered, the only thing was the day his classmate accidentally drove the sharp point of a protractor into his palm. No such bloody drama occurred when I was in Miss M’s class, but I remember seeing past her gruff exterior early on, and realizing she really did like kids (sorta).   

Then came nuns, for third and fourth. Fifth grade was Miss Hibbert, my second lay teacher. She awakened in me a lasting love of creative writing, and gave us more challenging books to read. She was also cut from the “strict but fair” cloth, but I was fond of her. At the end of fifth, I still had three more elementary school years to go, so growing up could wait awhile longer.  

In contrast, this is Aiden’s last year in elementary; Sandy Run Middle School looms for next fall. I’m not a huge fan of 6-7-8 middle schools; it seems unfortunate that the three most difficult years of childhood are isolated in one building. But meanwhile, I know he’ll do just fine this year as one of the “Big Kids” at Jarrettown.

Peter starts second (he missed the kindergarten cutoff with a late September birthday). Peter is bright to begin with, plus he has been successfully keeping up with Aiden his whole life, so he presents to the world as a much older child. His teacher, Mrs. Caviston, was his dad Sheridan’s and Uncle Evan’s kindergarten teacher back in the day, and she was Julie’s second grade teacher too. If she doesn’t receive a medal for teaching four Seyfrieds, I will buy her one.   

What will stay with my guys, I wonder? Memory is so strange, images and voices drifting through our brains, often randomly. My primary prayer for them both is a year of friends, fun and the joy of learning. If that’s all they recall in the future, that’ll be plenty.  

 Oh, one more prayer: please Lord, no protractor incidents!

the boys at Funland August 2024