On My Plate 05.04.2013

written by nettie lane

The plate my sister sent me by artist Sharon McAuley

On my plate is a tiny island where ripples of seawater gulp methodically and spruce stand stoically somehow finding anchorage through the granite. I can hear the fog horn amidst cries of prodigal sea birds. Buoys bob and dot the distance marking territory, each a lobsterman’s signature. Here, 'lobsterman' is a generic term referring to man or woman, although it is mostly men who are hauling the catch. Women, I am told, manage the money and do the taxes. A tutor at the local high school related this story: a sophomore, when having trouble in math, said he didn't have a reason to learn because when he married, his wife would do all of the accounting. That's just the way it goes. Here, an eighth grader can work the summer season and in that short time equal their teacher's salary. They work hard though. Up at 4am and done by 4pm, only to repeat it the next day...and the next. The work ethic is strong.



Black Dinah Chocolates

It is also a place of artists and artisans. My first hand experience has to do with chocolate and coffee. (You can tell where my priorities lie). How can one resist chocolates with names like strawberry balsamic, blueberry black pepper, downeast sea breeze (Maine bog cranberries, cranberry potato vodka, milk chocolate, topped with a dried cranberry), or tree-to-sea caramel (Maine maple caramel, bittersweet chocolate, apple smoked Maine sea salt). All handmade with integrity and ethics.

I found a small coffee roasting company that specializes in small batch, responsibly sourced, organic, fair-trade coffee. They hand silk screen their coffee bags. I had to buy their "Royal Tar" blend because it is named and dedicated to the 'Circus ship' that sank off the island in 1836. It's a tragic, sad story. The ship caught fire, burning for 2 days. Sixty of the ninety passengers were saved. But the ship was also carrying a menagerie of circus animals:  lions, a Bengal tiger, snakes, camels, horses and a beloved elephant named Mogul. They all perished. Legend has it that some managed to escape to nearby islands where they say some of their descendants live today. What kind of descendants? I would love to believe some of those glorious animals made it to a safe harbor. In that brief moment before the owner answers, I imagine a neighboring island that has indeed become a wildlife refuge. That somehow the lions and camels, along with Mogul, made it to safety. Where humans finally left them alone. Their very own retirement village. Sort of a cross between Animal Farm and Noah's Ark without Noah. But she answers with snakes. Reports of very large snakes seen slithering around some nearby isles. I've also read that two horses managed to swim to safety.

This is the second time in two months that I am back in this small corner of the world, working in the schools as an artist-in-residence teaching circus skills. The first, I found myself on an even smaller Isle, six miles by two miles, with only four boys in the entire (one-room) school house. We made a deal the first day. I would teach them circus skills and they would teach me all about lobsters, which I honestly knew nothing about. I have never eaten a 'fully clothed' crustacean. I may have had some lobster pieces in a pasta once, I think...maybe?

I didn't grow up eating a lot of fish as my Dad was highly allergic--anaphylactic shock allergic, puffing up and not able to breathe allergic. So we rarely ate the stuff save for a tin of  'chicken of the sea'  tuna or frozen fish sticks, which was normally consumed on Fridays during Lent. I feel a little ashamed admitting this, but until the boys educated me, I didn't realize lobsters weren't red! I know...it is embarrassing! Apparently, the major pigment in the shell, astaxanthin, is bonded with other proteins, thus giving the shell all those other colors. When a lobster is cooked, the heat breaks those bonds and the natural red color of the astaxanthin is revealed...free at last. Well, the color, not the lobster. The boys didn't know about astaxanthin, I decided to research a bit to make amends for my ignorance.

Guess what else I unearthed? Did you know the bladders of American lobsters are in their head and they urinate out of their faces? Perhaps this is where we get the expression "pee-brain." And upon further research, I discovered urine figures prominently in their mating rituals. Females scope out the neighborhood to find the alpha male. It's not that hard to do since he is out and about beating up all the other lobsters, asserting his dominance. They'll follow him home after his night of roughhousing, stand at the entrance to his lair and squirt their pheromone-laced urine inside. Over time, this aggressive male responds to the sweet perfume, even using the little fins under his tail to swish it around his bachelor pad. Eventually, it's safe for the female to move in without the fear of being killed. (Lobsters are into cannibalism). And then this is the really cool thing...the sweet and tender part to this story. In order to mate, the female has to undress or shed her shell. She molts. This puts her in an extremely vulnerable situation. Her guy could easily kill her with his sharp claws, for now she is all soft and exposed. The bully on the block, intoxicated by love (or at least a very arousing aphrodisiac) responds by gently, so very gently, caressing her all over with his long antennae. And their elaborate and delicate ritual begins. I don't know the specifics, but it has been mentioned that the details are quite racy. When they are done, they both take a bite out of her discarded shell, the lobster equivalent to having a ciggy after the 'deed.' She lives with him until her shell grows back (about 10 days) and it is safe to go outside. And when she does, there's another one of her sisterhood, waiting at the door and it starts all over again. Serial monogomy.

I don't know how I have wandered from On My Plate to lobster sex! Because what I really wanted to write about was simply my plate. I have 3 of them now, recently acquiring a small one as a gift from my sister, a gesture of support for my writing. And about my bowls. And my cups. And even my spoon. About how I am trying to simplify. How I want to have a relationship with not only the food on my table, but my place setting, too.

Ceramic Vessel by Blaze Birge

My two other plates have solid weight and strength to them. They remind me of the ceramic artist who made them, my friend Nick in California. He used to be the Strongman in the small circus I was involved in before moving East. I have other beauties from his wood fired Anagama (Japanese style) kiln--a bowl, a mug, a cup his wife Jess made. On my 40th birthday my trapeze teacher gifted me a beautiful vessel that I keep on my altar. It holds charred matchsticks, each representing a night of prayer. That also was fired on the same property. When these objects alight my table, I am reminded of firings that take an entire week and a schedule of round-the-clock firetenders. I am whisked away to the Redwoods and Mendocino coast--to shared experiences of love, beauty and those special kiln pizzas.

I have a small cup made by Sara, a local artist here in Brattleboro. It was specifically made and sanctioned in the colors of a cabaret show I co-produced and performed in 3 years ago. And a bowl from Eric, a ceramic artist turned circus-burlesque performer, and my cohort in that particular adventure.

Cups by Rising Meadow Pottery and Sara Meehan

My most recent treasured additions come from a husband and wife team in Middletown Springs, Vermont (population 745). I stayed with them while working at the local school. I will generalize now, much like I did at the beginning of this post, and say that the few ceramic artists I have known seem to lead holistic, creative lives. Meaning their way of life, their artfulness, permeates everything. Perhaps it has something to do with shaping earth with their hands and using water, air and fire in their craft. When leaving, I was gifted with a beautiful cup made by Diane and a gorgeous bowl made by Nick. Are all male ceramic artists named Nick? In my world they are. He specializes in making local, indigenous glazes, taking the waste product from a nearby slate quarry (as well as using a granite, soapstone and marble mix from another local business which makes headstones for graves) and transforming it into the colors I see on my bowl.

And then there is my spoon. A Christmas gift a few years ago from my housemate at the time. Erik is like a brother to me. A metalsmith by trade, a jokester at heart, and at those brilliant lovely times, the engineer who makes manifest the crazy ideas and pictures in my head. He saw my place setting. He noticed what I was trying to do. He realized I lacked utensils in my venture. So, he made me a spoon. Like Nick's plates, it has a beautiful weight, feel and look.


Plate by Flynn Creek Pottery
Bowl by Rising Meadow Pottery
Spoon by Newquist Metalsmithing

These are the stories and people that gather round and grace my table. The Roaster, the Chocolatier, Ceramic Artists, Family and Friends. In Vermont it is easy to have the Farmer and the Sugarer, too. (Last year I walked my large Mason jar down to my neighbor who does his maple syruping with draft horses in the woods). I do spend many meals with a table setting for one, but I am not alone. One day, I may even have the company of a Maine lobster on my plate.