Making Tea Bowls

Yesterdays rain is gone, and a cool breeze brushes my face as I rake the chestnuts and their prickly pods from the front lawn. I have seen the older children off to school, but Sean insists on helping with his own small rake before he leaves. When we are done, and I have swept the drive, we stand back and survey our handiwork. Satisfied, we shake hands, his tiny five year old hand enveloped in my gentle grip, and he merrily goes off to pre-school with Mika. As I put the tools away I notice a blush of red among the foliage of the woods.


It is not the autumn leaves that one might expect, but the berries of the Sansho, the native Japanese pepper. I collect them in a bowl and wash them before putting them out in a woven bamboo tray to dry. As they dry they will split, revealing the black seed inside. We will remove the husks, separating them from the seeds and stems, and it is these red husks that we will grind into the fragrant sansho pepper. The seasons march on.






The light is soft through the studio doors as I spiral wedge the ten kilograms of clay, one hundred times anticlockwise, reverse the piece of clay, one hundred times more, then finish in a cone. I place the clay on the wheel head and top up the water in my throwing bowl. The throwing bench is clean, and I place my favourite ware board beside the wheel. (Yes, I have a favourite ware board, but that's another story.) Beside the water bowl I place my one ended throwing string and my sponge, as these are the only tools I will use today. I am ready to begin.


I throw a little slower than I would perhaps for other forms, letting the clay find it's centre beneath my fingers, letting the marks of the process remain on the clay. I do not measure, at least not with a ruler. I feel the amount of clay that I can hold comfortably in my hand, I lift it and belly it into a form which will be good for whisking the tea. The curve of the bowl must fit the hand, the lip must be comfortable to drink from, the inside must have somewhere for the tea to settle. There are names for all the parts of a tea bowl, just as there are names for all the parts of a tree. A tree however is not constructed from parts, it grows as a whole, and it cares not for the words we use to describe it. To make a tea bowl according to a formula of parts is to make a bowl which is about "tea bowls", not to make a bowl for tea. And so each bowl I make is different, an exploration of form, surface and space. The kiln will finish them for me, but for now I seek only to embrace this moment and release it into the clay, giving form to the forces of nature.



The making of tea bowls is not a simple thing of measurements and rules. There are a plethora of books about tea bowls, with photographs and measurements of classic examples, and these are useful as a guide. But they are useful in the same way as a wine guide. It gives an intellectual framework perhaps, but understanding only comes through the drinking of the wine. How much greater must the understanding, the knowledge and the skill base then be in order to make a fine wine? It was for this reason that I became a student of the tea ceremony some years ago, as I had been asked by many Japanese friends to make tea bowls yet lacked an understanding of their use and the philosophy of tea.


By studying the art of tea I began to understand that the tea bowl is part of a greater art work, an installation if you like, in which both the server and the drinker of the tea actively participate. The bowl is the focal point, the conduit through which all of these aspects interact, but it is dependent on the rest of the whole. The tea ceremony is a celebration of experiencing the simple sensual beauty of the moment. Thus the season, the weather, the ambiance all become vital players. I received these licences to practice the tea ceremony from the Urasenke school of tea on October 10th, 1998. I will be learning for the rest of my life.

The making of tea bowls is, for me, a quiet and gentle thing. Just as a tree cannot be forced to grow, just as a child must be nurtured, the clay must be allowed to take form. It is my task to stay still and wait for the bowl to find a shape that fits my hand, and to know when to release it. It is about being aware of the changes happening before your eyes and recognising the moment, and it is like holding a child's hand firm enough to guide it, but never too tight.

Full of Beans

The sunrise on the Summer Solstice is grey and damp. "Tsuyu", the Japanese rainy season, in full swing. After the breakfast rush and getting the kids off to school with "Obento" lunch boxes, we set about our own tasks for the day.

I am packing my kiln at the moment, but the weather is affecting my work cycle. Because I do not bisque fire my pottery, and apply the glazes raw, the pots must be bone dry. A difficult task when it is humid one moment, drizzling the next! (The leak in the studio roof doesn't help much either!) There are sometimes breaks of sun for just a few hours though, so last week I managed to get the pots outside to dry properly.







The kiln shelves are cleaned and coated with a fresh layer of kiln wash. I lay them out to dry on bamboo poles that I harvested in winter with the boys. I lash bamboo poles to the old pipes, from the gas kiln I had in Nanai many years ago, to span across to the edge of the garden terrace. The boys use the pipes for a soccer goal, so I dismantled the structure at the end of the day. Raising the pots up into the air away from the damp grass helps them dry faster, but that is not the main reason for this contraption.





The last thing that I need is pussy foot prints in broken pottery shards. The four kittens we currently have cavorting about the garden are full of beans, but not yet big enough to venture up to the terrace. Most of the time they spend occupying my shoes.



Mid afternoon the rain began, big fat drops sent to reconnoitre at first, then an onslaught of cats and dogs, followed by a persistent skirmish of drizzle. If one drop of rain lands on the raw glaze it will lift away from the clay leaving a crawling scar in the finished glaze surface. There is twenty metres of open ground between the studio and the kiln shed.... Packing the kiln will have to wait until tomorrow.


After cleaning up and taking a coffee break with Mika, the kids start arriving home from school. Homework and dinner preparations begin in earnest. We have the first batch of string beans from the garden to add to the main course, but today I have a special treat in store...because last Sunday was Fathers Day! The family surprised me with an Ice Cream Maker!

I am using it for the first time, so I decided to stick with basics; Vanilla. I just happen to have some Vanilla pods in the cupboard (as one does!), so here it goes.



VANILLA BEAN ICE CREAM

200 ml Milk
200 ml Cream
Half a Vanilla Bean
1 Whole Egg
2 Egg Yolks
80 grams Sugar


Split the Vanilla Bean down the centre and scrape out the seeds with the point of a knife. Mix the cream, milk and Vanilla pods and seeds together in a saucepan and simmer gently for 20 minutes. Blend the remaining ingredients in a separate bowl till ivory coloured and creamy. Pour half the simmered mixture into the bowl and continue blending, then return the whole mixture to the saucepan and heat gently till thickened like custard. Chill this mixture in the fridge and remove the bean pods before placing in the Ice Cream Maker.

Serve with a sprig of fresh mint.

Without a doubt, this is the best Ice Cream I have ever had. The family, especially the kids, agree, and now, like the kittens, the coffee, the ice cream and the garden, we're all full of beans.

Mock Fish

Advanced skills are elementary skills, just as the greatest joys are the simplest ones. During my many discussions with my friend Hashimoto Touru about Japanese cuisine, he has pointed out that the high art of Japanese Kaiseki cuisine is based on good old fashioned home cooking. Food was prepared to be served to the master of the house and guests, and certain homes became renowned for their hospitality. As more guests came to these homes with gifts, these homes became more prepared for greeting those guests, and so in time places which specialised in hospitality emerged. That is the root of the hospitality industry, and I think that holds true in any culture.

Pottery emerged in a similar fashion from the need for vessels in the home in ancient times, and as different families began to specialize in particular trades, so too pottery became a profession. Perhaps not the oldest, but fairly close!

I began potting when I was about 14, working part time in studios near my home. Even then functional pottery was what I wanted most to do, and it was the lifestyle and the humanistic nature of the art that interested me most. When I was young I found myself in a position where I needed to question conventional values and find answers that would help me achieve my potential. Pottery allowed me to explore art, science and philosophy, while building my physical strength and dexterity, all in collaboration with the basic forces of nature, and then to give that a form that was beautiful and functional, communicating my feelings to others in an intimate way. It is a career that continues to be challenging and from which I will never retire, and the pots that I make will hopefully bring joy to generations to come.

I have been working with chefs since the '90s, and it began with my desire for my pots to be used and to improve the quality and practicality of my work. In order to make good pots one must know how to use them, so I have always enjoyed cooking and serving food on my work. I am not, however a professional chef, and felt that I needed the input of a professional chef. I also needed to "test drive" the results, so the collaborations began. I love the process of making and firing the work, the preparation and serving of the food, and the ultimate enjoyment of sharing a meal with those I love.

There have been many challenges along the way, not the least of which has been trying to gain the understanding both of the public and my family and friends that pottery is an Art and a Career, not just a glorified hobby. Working with chefs and sharing my vessels in a restaurant atmosphere has been a wonderful opportunity to help that understanding, and the photographs of the work with food have helped to communicate that idea. However, I started to find people saying that the food they cook at home could not do justice to the pottery, and was incomparable to the cuisine served by professional chefs.



Which brings me back to my original point, that even the best of cuisine is based on the simplest of origins; enjoying food in the home with the people you love. One of my favourite meals in all the world is a simple dish that my Mum used to make called Mock Fish. It is made from potatoes mainly, and I have memories of Mum making batch after batch while my brothers and I devoured them with lashings of tomato relish. So when a friend brought me some home grown spuds, onions and tomatoes the other day, and eggs were cheap, I cooked up a batch, and served them with a sprig of dill from the garden. I took a photo of it and that has been at the top of my blog ever since. The simplest of foods, served in the simplest of ways, on hand crafted vessels, enjoyed with the people you love. What could be more nourishing for the body and the spirit?

MOCK FISH　(My Version!)

1 Large Onion, diced
5 Eggs
80g Plain Flour
1 Level Teaspoons of Salt
1 Level Teaspoon of White Pepper
5ml White Vinegar
1kg Finely Grated Potato

Olive Oil to Shallow fry

Add the ingredients to a large bowl in the order shown, and mix each potato into the mixture as it is grated. This will avoid the potato oxidizing and turning brown. When thoroughly mixed, fry 100ml dollops of mixture on medium heat for three minutes each side till golden brown. Serve as shown in the photo, sandwiched with a slice of fresh tomato and a sprig of fennel, or with lashings of tomato relish. They're really nice cold too! 　　
　　

Back where I belong

Thanks to everyone who visited me at Takashimaya, is was great catching up with so many of you. My friends were fantastically hospitable, and I thank them from the bottom of my heart. My thanks also to the staff of NY Takashimaya HOME, you really made it a fun and successful exhibition.

The metropolis of Tokyo and Yokohama has about the same population as Australia, so no matter how much I enjoy the experience of the big smoke, after an exhibition there I'm glad to be home. It is possible to find reprieve from the concrete and asphalt by walking through gardens like the Meiji Jingu in Shibuya, or the Imperial Palace, but it's not the same as being home in the country, surrounded by rice paddies and forest.

The garden is looking very Shakespearean; "'Tis an unweeded garden gone to seed, things rank and gross in nature possess it merely". I haven't had a chance to attend it for a long while, but Mika has managed to save the vegetable bed from neglect. Hooray for Mika!


I went for a walk this morning, while the dew was still on the leaves, and breathed the fresh, clean air. The Japanese summer is hot and wet, so the vegetation is verdant and the harvest plentiful. We have lots of fresh, sun ripened tomatoes, egg plant, and the children have made a special effort to grow okra this year. It is particularly one of Rohans favourites.



The kids are on school holidays, so we have a full cast for every meal. For lunch today I made burgers of minced chicken breast, then simmered them in a sauce of fresh tomatoes, onion and okra. Served on a bed of organic rice from my inlaws farm in Gunma, with grated cheese melted on it, then the reduced sauce and topped with fried egg plant and a sprig of fennel flowers.


Mika made a delicious summer dessert of yoghurt and mango gelato, topped with a sprig of mint. We make our own Caspian Yoghurt, and the mint from the garden just gave a delightful accent.


Afternoon tea was a gift from our friend who has a cooking school, Takane san. She acquired the rose cup cake mold on a recent visit to the US. The walnut banana bread was rich and moist.









I have been to and worked with some fine restaurants in the city, and the experience is always sublime. Never the less, there is no greater joy than sharing the fruit of your own labour with the ones you love. It doesn't simply feed the body and scintillate the senses; It nourishes the soul.

When all is said and done, this is where I belong.

Salt and Pepper

Some of you may remember my trip to the Niigata sea side earlier this year. While I was there I filled a twenty litre tank with sea water for Canaan to make salt. I have fond memories of lugging it home across the moonlit rice paddies from the village hall. Well, now that it is getting colder and we are lighting the wood stove everyday, it seems a good chance to make good use of the heat.

While the rest of our lives go on, while pots are being made and deadlines being met. While children are being sent off to school or meals are being made, a fry pan full of filtered sea water slowly evaporates on the stove.

By the end of the day all the water is gone and we have a fry pan full of salt crystals. From one litre of sea water we get about 30 grams of salt, so eventually we should have about 600 grams of sea salt. I already use it in the cooking, and it has a mellower flavour than rock salt.

Mika took this snap shot of me photographing the salt and pepper, and it seems that I have more in common with it than I thought.

New Life

Spring has come after the long winter and with it has come new life. Delicate and fragile, the plum blossoms adorn the yet leafless branches.





The logs of ash wood have been stacked in rows through the winter in the shelter of the cedar grove.





Through their bark the Shiitake mushrooms come muscling their way to the light.





In the grass and leaf mulch "Fukinoto" (angelica) buds of bright green burst forth.



Yes, the winter has been long, but not so long that life cannot reassert itself. It has been a time of gestation, a time of contemplation, a time to question my direction and find that what was true before remains true. To live a good life is the goal, and it is not a distant destination but a daily journey that defines who we are. Before we measured the world and set our arbitrary limits on it, before we invented money or built clocks to rule our lives, before the whims of fame and fashion, we were and will always be a part of nature and only whole when we live as one with it.



To rise with joy at the rising of the sun, to work with ones hands in the earth, to take the gifts that nature gives us and share them with the people that we love, to go to our rest at the setting of the sun and be embraced by the gentle night. To experience the beauty of the world with all our senses, take it and find it within ourselves and then share it with others as something new, an expression of who we are.



We picked a bowl full of fukinoto from our garden today, my wife, my children and I, and we enjoyed them as tempura as part of our evening meal. We ate from the pottery which I made for us, at the dining table we made, on the wooden floor we built. There is no luxury in this, but what life could be richer?



It is not an easy road that I have chosen, it never was, but it is a good one. It's rewards cannot always be measured by conventional values, and for some people I suppose it will always be a mystery. I am not some people, and neither they nor I can live by the others standards. My path is mine, all the hours and days and seasons that I live. And life goes on.

Saffron

Every year, when the mornings start to become fresh in the autumn, I am greeted with a beautiful splash of purple, yellow and red in the midst of the green lawn. We harvest the red stamens of this delicate crocus for the most precious spice of all, saffron. Worth its weight in gold, it gives to food the colour of gold and the fragrance of autumn. Our crop is not large, but used sparingly it will last us a year till autumn comes again.

One of my favourite dishes is of course saffron rice. Combined with cashew nuts, raisins and turmeric it is the perfect foil for a curry banquet.

SAFFRON RICE

6 cups of rice

1 small onion, chopped finely

1 cup of raisins or sultanas

1 cup of cashew nuts

12 strands of saffron, steeped in 200ml hot water for 5 minutes

1 teaspoon of turmeric

1 litre of stock

25 grams of butter

Melt butter in frypan and lightly fry the onions till translucent. Add cashew nuts and raisins, fry for a minute or so, add turmeric. Put the rice into the frypan and mix well till well coated with butter then add the other ingredients. Bring to the boil on a high flame then allow to simmer on very low, covered, for twenty minutes. Serve with any variety of curries and Naan.

A Taste of Autumn

Summer is gone. The mornings are cooler now, the leaves are turning colour and the chestnuts are ripe and falling from the trees. For thousands of years before the "Yamato" oriental race entered Japan the indigenous Jomon people grew chestnuts as their staple diet. Chestnut trees, both wild and cultivated, are spread throughout Japan, and we are blessed with both varieties in our garden.



It is also the time of the rice harvest, and Mikas' parents grow organic rice on the family property in Gunma. Each year they bring us the new rice fresh from the harvest. Mikas' sister also gave us some "Kuro Mai" wild rice, so today we will feast on the seasons gifts.



"KURI GOHAN" (Chestnut Rice)



450 grams of white rice

50 grams of "KuroMai"

200 grams of peeled chestnuts

600mls of japanese stock

3 spare teaspoons of salt



Wash the rice and let it stand for an hour. Put all ingredients into your rice cooker, press the button and viola! If you dont have a rice cooker, put all the ingredients into a lidded non stick saucepan, bring to the boil on a high flame, reduce the flame to very low for twenty minutes, then let it stand for five minutes before stirring gently so as not to mash the chestnuts.



One of the neighbours also brought us some home grown "Sato Imo" (Taro Potatoes). One of our favourite Japanese country meals is "Niku Jaga" (meat and potatoes) which is usually made with beef and ordinary potatoes. This is my original recipe!



"EUAN'S NIKU JAGA"



600 grams of Taro potatoes

350 grams of sliced lamb

200 grams of sliced onion

3 tablespoons of honey

6 tablespoons of "Mirin" cooking sake

6 tablespoons of soy sauce

200 grams of "Shirataki" yam noodles

750 mls of water



Put all ingredients into a pressure cooker, seal and cook on a high flame till the valve starts to hiss. Reduce to a low flame for ten minutes. Allow to cool naturally till the valve drops, then serve immediately with a garnish of "Sansho"(Japanese Native Pepper).



Sansho grows wild in the woods here, so I took a stroll up the hill and picked a few fronds. It is best to hold the fronds in your cupped hand and clap once as hard as you can. This bursts the fragrance cells without damaging the leaves, making the aroma fill the air! It was the perfect meal for a Mashiko wood firing in autumn.

Dinner is Served

Imagine a romantic dinner for two, candle light, fine wine and excellent food. Now imagine it served on paper plates and plastic cups. The point being that the vessels in which food is served are vital to the enjoyment of the meal.




A dinner plate, for example, is not just a flat thing to chuck food on. Yes, it needs a flat surface so that the cuisine can be displayed on it, but it also needs depth so that any liquids don't just run off.





The rim becomes a frame, I add a feather mark being blown around the edge of the plate, and the change of direction leading up to it assists in the mechanics of getting the food onto your eating implements. The rim rises above the table so that the plate can be lifted and carried easily.








Glaze colour helps to frame and compliment the food, sometimes adding contrast, sometimes harmony. The surface must be smooth and flat so that knives and forks can be used without unpleasant grating on rough textures, clattering on throwing rings or screeching across glassy surfaces. The total effect my not be so obtrusive as to take away from the food itself.





Nor is it merely the upper surface that must be considered. Stability is determined by the breadth of the foot ring and the total weight of the plate. The foot ring must be smooth so as not to scratch your lovely antique dining table, and the underside needs to be glazed for easy washing. It must fit in you dish rack and be easy to pick up, even if it is wet and upside down.

I include a double foot ring to eliminate warpage during firing, and decorate the outer area with chattering, while signing the centre with my initials, EC.





A stamp on the outside of the foot ring marks the work as mine, and the wild boar stamp beside it identifies it as being made in 2007, the year of the boar. Finally it must stack in the cupboard without taking too much space, and be durable enough for everyday use.




All of these considerations and more go into the design of the humble dinner plate. Of course the food you serve and the company with whom you enjoy it are the most crucial factor in the making of a dinner plate, whether in your own home or at your favorite restaurant. Whether it is a Chinese banquet, or pasta made with fresh tomatoes, eggplant and rosemary from the garden.

A Spot of Gardening

We have been working in the garden when time allows, and this year we're looking forward to a healthy harvest. It has taken us years to fight back the veritable jungle that was the garden when we moved here. Years of neglect had let the bamboo and weeds run rampant. The road is still long, but there is light enough at the end of the tunnel to grow a kitchen garden plot. There is a mixture of herbs and vegetables, mainly things which I like to use often. Herbs particularly are hard to get fresh here, so growing them yourself is the best option. The basil which I got as a seedling is looking very lush.








I also planted a row of basil seeds for later in the summer. They are just showing their heads today, and there should be enough basil for lashings of pesto.

Of course no feast of pasta wood be complete without tomatoes. They are still green and getting bigger by the day. We will let them ripen on the vine, giving them time to develop the rich flavours that shop bought tomatoes just never seem to have.

The capsicums are coming along too, we've planted three varieties. Small green capsicums are cheap in the supermarket, but large red or yellow ones are a bit of a luxury.

Cucumbers are one of Mika's favourite summer vegetables, and even at this stage, with the flower still attached, they could be used as a garnish. I think we'll wait until they get a bit bigger though, and make a real meal of it!