Pizza Day minus 6 years. A potter, a dulcimer player, a painter, a poet and a berry farmer build a barrel-vaulted brick oven. Timber-framers build a structure around it. Iron workers make long-handled rakes, forks and peels. Stone-building classes dry-stack elbowhigh walls around it, carpenters make picnic tables and benches. Gardening classes plant fennel, oregano and basil. Work-study crews grow tomatoes and split oak into keen firewood.
P-Day minus 1. Nanette drives to a dairy she knows about and acquires milk from non-corporate cows. At night, she builds fires.
P-Day 13:00. Susan the Blacksmith forges world-class sculpture, then rides from Clay Spencer Shop to Davidson Hall on the running board of a truck full of what appear to be pirates. She becomes Susan the Cheese-maker and leads a class in making mountains of fresh mozzarella. Chef Steve and Cory Marie and their Italian Cooking class simmer sauce not too long. The Dining Hall crew brings a crisp salad of fresh greens from the gardens.
P-Day 15:00. Is it going to rain? Sure looks like it. At some point, we could call it off? That is, I could call it off. I confer with my top people, very much like General Eisenhower. I watch the clouds, pacing, deep in thought. Tensely, we watch the gathering storm over Wells Mountain. My top people point out to me that I am not General Eisenhower and that the worst that could happen is we might get wet. So I decide it is on, the game’s afoot, fullspeed ahead and charge. We take the precaution of requesting the religiously diverse group of folks each to whammy shimmy shammy in his or her own beliefs towards the darkling clouds.
The rain, it raineth over all of the Southeastern United States and pretty ferociously on Murphy and Hayesville, and all the way from Hanging Dog to Smackass, while The Folk School appears on apps as a placid blip in the midst of much precip. A pleasant misting sweeps through the vale, but the music never misses a bump-ditty. The baking, done by dancers, flows gracefully as a contraline. Smoky, toasty aromas of wood and bread unite us. Some carry wood, some bake, some play, some dance, all eat and drink. It looks like a festival of colorful medieval people in a Breughel painting except no hellmouths or bagpipes. Continue reading How We Made Pizza: A Slice of Folk School Life