Kitchen table pottery school

Margaret offered to bring her portable wheel over after I mentioned wanting to practice between classes. “The kitchen counter will work fine,” she said. Famous last words.

Kitchen table pottery school

Turns out centering clay requires approximately seventeen more muscles than I knew existed in my hands. Margaret makes it look effortless - just gentle pressure and steady breathing. Meanwhile I’m wrestling this lump like it owes me money. The clay keeps lurching sideways every time I think I’ve got it.

“Breathe with it,” Margaret keeps saying. “Feel what it wants to do.” What it wants to do, apparently, is fling itself across my kitchen and coat everything in brown sludge.

The exact moment I realized why pottery classes exist.

Jake’s been documenting my learning curve from the doorway, probably for future blackmail purposes.

Three hours later: one semi-centered piece, clay under my fingernails for the next week, and a new appreciation for why pottery wheels live in studios with proper drainage. Margaret’s coming back Thursday. I’m buying more towels.