Tuscan Sun

The windowledge is wide. So wide objets d'art can rest there safely. The moon is full. A Persian moon close to the earth. It bathes the whole landscape in silvery splendor. And is so large one could lose oneself in it.
Mary is curled up on the couch, her wooly robe snuggled closely around her. Oversized floppy slippers hug her feet. The rest of the room is dark except for the flicker of burning logs in the fireplace.
The Tuscan Sun languishes there, alone on the sill, mantled in the magic light of moonbeams. Mary's eyes trace its contours lovingly. She remembered the moment he had given it to her. The flavor of the pre-mixed margaritas they had shared, poured from its sparkling interior still teased her senses. Remembering.
Remembering the sun's rays so intense the day shined orange; remembering the seawater so vibrantly blue there were no words to describe the color. Some called it azure blue. Others described it as indigo. Yet now, Mary would name the color as the blue of a broken heart.
One white-capped wave rose grandly above the sea that day. It felt as if the wave was reaching for the heavens. That single moment when the wave threw itself with wild abandon into the day's orangy heat touched the depth and breadth of their love, hers and Stephens. It seemed that the Universe was blessing their union with the perfect landscape.
That had been months ago, before Stephen had been called away. Company business. Hush. Hush.
On that last day as they lay entwined in the hot sands of desire, he whispered in her ear, whispered against the tendrils of her hair, whispered along the softness of her neck, whispered of his return. Promising. Promising to return.
Mary curled more snugly into the couch's embrace feeling the pillows cushion her grief. She watched the moon's ascent and watched it grow smaller as it rose high in the night sky. The moonlight playing on the Tuscan Sun was just as silvery as before, but less intense.
The phone was ringing but she made no attempt to answer it. Where would she find the energy? It would be much too exhausting to endure another pointless conversation with friends consoling her for her loss, or worse yet, some telemarketer selling a product she'd never have occasion to use.
Then she heard the answering machine click on.
"Mary, this is Stephen."
Suddenly overflowing with the buoyant vibrancy of emotion, Mary raced for the phone. Catching the receiver from its cradle, she answered, her voice breathless with wonder.
Stephen !

Introducing: The Tuscan Sun

Stoneware

7" tall

4 ¾" diameter

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Contact:
chaetoons@gmail.com
or call: (208) 354-1650
Chaeli Sullivan
P.O. Box 945
Driggs, ID 83422



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Morrocan Coda

Thanksgiving at Aunt Milly's house was enough to give heartburn to the stoutest disposition. The last members of the family to appear at this yearly event were the luckiest, thus everyone came late, often arriving en masse, just one moment before the point of rudeness.

Whisked from the entryway to the oppressively dark dining room, they found themselves in a room sucked clean of oxygen and smelling of the heavy aroma of a meal yet to be endured.
A long somber table occupied the room's center, flanked on either side by enormous raven-black hutches. The base of these hutches stood atop of the knarled claw feet of some indeterminable animal whose brass talons gripped and shredded the carpet. It was easy to imagine a dragon swooping out of the gloom to devour unwitting family members.
Aunt Milly was a stickler for propriety. Showing up at her table in jeans which sported holes in the knees was simply not allowed. Silky dresses and stockings were the expected mode of attire. Which wouldn't have been so bad except for the horsehair chairs. Outdated relics of a comfortless century, these seats were designed by a masochist whose plain intent was to torture unlucky guests. Sharp bristles on the overstuffed cushions needled through clothing, causing one to squirm like a mexican jumping bean and earning "one of those looks" from Aunt Milly.
Conversation in such an environment is naturally stilted. Silence usually dominated the entire meal.
Austerity exemplified these occasions.

There was one year though that the whole affair was immensely entertaining. The year of the Morrocan Coda.
Aunt Milly's sister, Jessie, who had been traveling a lot that year, suggested that she bring along a keepsake from one of her trips. A morrocan styled teapot. Now Jessie knew full well that Milly wouldn't drink tea. Never touched a drop. So Jessie offered to bring the Morrocan Coda filled and ready to serve the ensemble.
Even though I was thirteen that Thanksgiving, the teapot, as it made it's way around the table, passed me by. It passed by all the other children, too. But I noticed nearly every adult poured a dollop of the beverage into the tiny demitasse cups Jessie had thoughtfully provided.
And I noted too, that suddenly there were twitters that sounded a lot like muffled giggles. A bit later, witty conversation flowed freely and soon, there was outright laughter. Uncle Henri danced with Jessie. Maud and Laura, two maiden aunts, enacted a poor imitation of the Charleston and Grandmother Sarah lost her false teeth under the table.
Ah yes, the year of the Morrocan Coda. It was the best Thanksgiving our family ever had.

Presenting: The Morrocan Coda

Stoneware

7" tall

7 ½" diameter

Holds: 1 liter fluids

Or

259 drams strong liquor

Contact:
chaetoons@gmail.com
or call: (208) 354-1650
Chaeli Sullivan
P.O. Box 945
Driggs, ID 83422




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Grandmothers Teapot

Grandmother never wore an apron. She used to say, "If it's Lucifer who meets me at the pearly gates, he's going to find me dressed for the occasion."
Gram always took control of situations and she didn't want to give Lucifer the upper hand.
She felt that way about a properly set table, too. If the devil was coming to sup, he'd find nothing to complain about when he sat down for afternoon tea.
While the tea steeped just long enough to extract the purest flavor, she would fuss with the lace tablecloth, smoothing it free of imaginary wrinkles. Her scones, baked to perfection, were carefully arranged on her finest china.
But it was her teapot, she felt, that would write the devil's epitaph.
Grandmother's teapot poured tea for the local gentry and politicians alike. It poured tea for visiting dignitaries, for doctors, plumbers, lawyers, gypsies, college professors, janitors, poets and philosophers, bankers, an occasional hobo, minorities, taxpayers and for the military.
The devil may not have voiced his opinion, but Grandmother's teapot gained renown as a vessel of diplomatic integrity, traditional hospitality and gracious warmth.

Presenting: Grandmother's Teapot

Stoneware

9 ½" tall

8 ¼" diameter

Contact:
chaetoons@gmail.com
or call: (208) 354-1650
Chaeli Sullivan
P.O. Box 945
Driggs, ID 83422





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Mediterranean Sundance

Important guests are coming to supper tonight and I want to set the perfect table.
A touch of class. A touch of elegance.

The centerpiece of the evening will be a collectors item. A topnotch piece that defies comparison, for it's one of a kind.

If you feel the same way I do about entertaining, you might want to add an original to your collection.

 
Name: Mediterranean Sundance
Stoneware
7" tall 4 ¾" diameter
Holds just over 1 fl. pint

For price and shipping details contact me at:

chaetoons@gmail.com
or call: (208) 354-1650
Chaeli Sullivan
P.O. Box 945
Driggs, ID 83422





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