Monday, August 6

Cakes at The Potters House.

This is just a taster of the workshop that was held here on Saturday by our daughter.
No doubt Neviepiecakes will have a super post on all of this soon.
But in the mean time I just want to show some of the things that happened...and admit that I felt quite emotional as she taught these thirteen women to paint on cakes.

Natasha on the left discussing painting technique.

We used to say to our two children as they were growing up..."don't go into teaching!"
It was a reaction to the tiredness that we felt and the sense of suffocation in the teaching world in the least that's how we felt and why we got out, to set up The Potters House here in Penketh.
But both have in their own way gone into ..if not teaching...then passing on information of their skills, to others.

 As usual all three of the studios were used.

Your's truly provided food and sustenance. Lots of drinks to keep the inspiration flowing...
and a spot of lunch to rest the weary brains!

And the potter didn't waste any opportunities to talk clay......

Happy days!!

Sunday, August 5

a Poem for Mag 129

A Dinner Table at night 1884 John Singer Sargent.

Many thanks to Willow at Mag 129  for this prompt.
I had just read an article in the Saturday Guardian about when dinner actually occured.
It seems to depend on whether you are a northerner or a southerner.
Working, middle or upper class here in England
We had dinner at midday in Belfast and tea, not as in afternoon tea, for we often also had that!...but as in at 6.00  early evening.
That was sometimes the main meal of the day and sometimes just a light meal.

The Dinner Party

I‘m never sure what I should wear.
The velvet with my upcombed hair,
The silver lame evening gown.
To dress it up or dress it down.
For what is dinner now I ask
Is dinner lunch, or is that passed?
Is dinner five in’t afternoon
When family’s home from work and schooling?
Or should one wait ‘til half past nine
To eat one’s fill, to sit and dine.

Confusion is the very word
I’ve often seen it writ or heard..
That one can turn up ill- prepared
For beans on toast or pasta whirls.
When all along you thought it would
Be consommé and gourmet food.

Blest, best,  of all, the family,
Who wear their clothes with easy ways.
Or friends who laugh at all my jokes.
Say “scrumptious” to the cheese on toast,
Ask,”how’s the kids?” and “are you well?”
And ,”isn’t this year’s summer - hell?”
And when they’ve gone their laughing way
To home and hearth, to work or play,
To stack the dishes in the sink.
Raise glass and “toast” and have a drink.

I’ll pack away the velvet dress
The lame  with pretentiousness.
The consume`, the lobster bisque,
The sinking soufflé, stinking fish.
The game terrine with gamey chips
Their taste that lingers on your lips.
That conversation so polite
With talk, to quench your  appetite.

So, feed me at a table round.
With children’s chatter, family sounds.
With heated subjects bandied round
Where food and drink and love abounds
And there I’ll dine, I’ll lunch, I’ll sup,
And drink my overflowing cup.