I'm into the primitive thing and ever since the passing of our summer program along the Mighty Onesquethaw, 
(circa1999) I’ve been outta sorts, disconnected. Luckily for me, hubby Jon (pictographs) is an old flint knapper and rock art hound. This means we spend hours searching and documenting ancient sites with pictographs and petroglyphs. We keep our noses to the ground for flakes and rock aliments. I do get my fix. I find mud and fire and all sizes of hiking trials here in California each spring, summer, winter and fall, but nothing like the freedom of an open field, a woodlot, a riparian area and a few stonewalls during a New York heatwave to remind you what it’s all about.
I’m reminded of long “upcreek” walks where we unearthed crayfish and slid on limestone slides. We lifted moss from the creek’s pools and draped our hot bodies with green bikinis for fashion shows. The days were sweltering, so any excuse to stay soaked was fine. Often we took the newly formed blonde clay from the curvy banks and pinched pots only to discover animal tracks covering our creations the next day. For refreshments we picked blackcaps and wild onions and declared ourselves worriers of a firebreathing clan. And on the those few fortuitous, yet still steamy afternoons, we searched for the mother of all snacks, a watermelon we had left floating in the shady depths of the creek, near the old Sycamore bridge. We did everything.
So, at one point this year Joann and I decided a substitute was needed. We found a place with life, a history and a person with natural charm. This is how we met Priscella Queen of the Desert. I liked her first off. We talked on the phone and she provided an unsolicited weather report. I relayed one back. This was going to be the place for Joann and I to have our little rendezvous, the one no one gets invited to. I was excited for the workshop (3 days, but we missed one). We coiled and recoiled the micacous clay mined on ancestral property in the Galestio Basin in New Mexico. 
Priscilla’s (www.priscillahoback.com) pots were all cured and ready to be fired in a pit and each one survived the process with special black cloudbursts embedded inside and out.
I learned that it is all about hand-building and structure. Joann’s pot clasped (which only means she should get one of mine). Someday I want to actually cook with mine. The clay casserole styles are popular but I’m thinking about outdoor fires and cooking in the adobe or cob oven just like our wondrous host Priscilla did for the final day’s feast.
