Grace

I am launching this website in honor of the people who nurtured my creativity. I have to start with my grandmother, Grace Mason Relyea, who would have been 108 this year. She left this earth in 1999 but a day rarely passes without me thinking of her.

Born in 1912, the youngest of daughter of a large family in rural Massachusetts, she was 8 when women obtained the right to vote and came of age during the great depression. She married the love of her life, Charles Relyea in 1937 and had great american adventures until he died unexpectedly in 1961, leaving her a widow at the age of 49 with a 16 year old daughter (my mom). Being a middle age single mom in the early 60's wasn't easy and she worked her way up to being the residence director of the local school of nursing. She retired in the mid 1970's to be an integral part of my life. I love this picture of her taken in front of the family fishing camp - even though this picture was taken decades before my birth she had the same smile and energy throughout her life.

I was lucky enough to spend time with her nearly every day of my young life. She loved me freely and openly and she was a natural teacher. She taught me how to cook and bake (mostly bake), how to sew, how to plant, tend, harvest and preserve a garden. She opening my first bank account with me and taught me the real value of money (freedom). She had a wonderful sense of style that she achieved by thrift store hunting and tag sale finds. She taught me the importance of knowing how to do things properly (manners, how to set a formal table, cursive writing, thank you notes, posture) even if you only employed this knowledge occasionally. She believed that every woman should have the skills to live an independent (and she did - she never remarried and was frugal). She wasn't perfect (who is?) and she was as stubborn as she was kind. She would have be so proud of me launching this business in my 40's and would have loved using (and gently critiquing) my pots.

I want to share two stories about Grace that are reflected in pots I make today:

Berry Picking is serious business: Grandma Grace loved to pick berries. She took it seriously because she believed you should never run out of homemade jam or frozen berries. NEVER. During blackberry season she would arrive at the house early, I am talking sun is barely up early, in order to beat the heat. She'd require us to wear 'dungarees' (jeans), a sturdy belt and a long sleeve shirt because those prickers (thorns) hurt when they snagged your skin. She would cut the tops off of plastic milk jugs (leaving the handle) and strap one to each of her (and our) hips so we could pick directly into these ''buckets". For location, sometimes we'd go to 'East Street'' (wooded property she owned) or sometimes a patch along the roadside that she happened to find during her tag sale scouting trips or because a friend alerted her. We'd hike into our spot and then pick and pick and pick until our buckets were full and our fingers stained purple. Then we would take a break (she would always pack a delicious picnic lunch and some sun tea or lemonade) eat an early lunch, sort through the buckets of berries to pick out any with stems or leaves or bugs. If we met our goal (which was usually north of 2 gallons) or if we had picked over the area we'd head home where my sister and I would promptly run through the sprinkler. Every time I make a berry bowl/colander I think of her and smile.

Tomato Canning Day: Because Grace came from a farm family and grew up during the great depression we had a LARGE garden that we helped tend (half an acre). For the most part I loved taking care of the garden, however, I dreaded tomato canning day. There would be bushels of tomatoes stacked in the kitchen along with blenders and pots and pans and paraffin wax for jar lids (this was before modern pressure cooking methods). My mom, Grandma, me and sister would spend all day in that steamy kitchen blending tomatoes and processing jars (and jars) of sauce. Grandma would keep us going when we all wanted to quit and she'd say things like 'the dishes are already dirty so cleanup will take the same time either way'. At the end of the day the kitchen would look like a murder scene with tomato sauce splattered everywhere including on us. BUT every Saturday from late October to February my mom would go down to the basement (where we stored all the sauce and other preserves) and bring up a jar or two to make spaghetti sauce from scratch. She would saute local hamburger and sausage, and add onions and garlic (stored) peppers (jarred) from the garden, oregano and basil and thyme (dried from the garden), and in deep winter months let the it simmer all day in the dutch oven on the wood stove. The house would be permeated with the delicious smell of marinara. Sometime's I would just skip the pasta and have a bowl of sauce with bread and butter. I have tried to replicate the recipe (even in the dutch oven I inherited) but I have yet to achieve anything approximate. So instead I make a pasta bowl as homage to this meal from childhood.

I am so thankful Grace was a part of my life and I try to honor her teachings in my own life and work.