A group of friends came for a studio visit on Sunday. We had a merry time with wine and samosas, much hilarity and gritty, probing conversation. Late-ish in the afternoon, there was the suggestion of tea. I reached for my favorite big old teapot (softly dimpled, pewter-glazed ceramic) and asked Lesley if she would do the honors while I went to find a book in my bedroom. Well, ahem. She called after me with a question, 'Er, Claire, how long is it since you made tea in this pot? You might want to take a look?' The rest, as they say, is history. . .
We drink a lot of tea in this house but most often use the small teapot with the red knitted jumper and dangling Licorice All Sorts, or the one that lives beneath the sassy striped ski-type beanie Jackie B made. Next time, I'll be sure to stick my nose into any and all pots before offering them to others for any tea-making ritual. So saying, the (weeks'-old?) mold is kind-of pretty, don't you think? (Kind of. . . ?) I can't help thinking of Lascaux and Alta Mira, the cave paintings of Chauvet and rock art of Africa, from whence I came. . . how much of everything is dust and smoke? And water. Always water.