My kitchen needed ceramics. So did I

Perhaps it’s a little comical to admit that Nara Smith inspired my desire to take up ceramics, but that is indeed the truth. Allow me to explain: My first foray into TikTok’s favorite Mormon tradwife was an old video of her enjoying a late-night snack. “It’s just whipped cream with blackberries and raspberries on top and some coconut sugar,” Smith said while showing off her sweet treat. Though it looked delicious, her bougie berries and cream were the least of my concerns. I was fixated on her choice of tableware: a cream-colored bubble plate.

“Have you ever craved something you’ve never had before, but it sounds so good in your mind?” Smith asked in a separate video that has since become its own meme. For me, it was the bubble plate, which had become a newfound need rather than a want. I fantasized about eating an array of bubble plate-friendly foods: crudités, scoops of vanilla ice cream drizzled in olive oil and elaborate yogurt bowls topped with fancy granola, cut-up fruit and cacao nibs. Eating wouldn’t just feel good, it would look good too. And in our digital era — where taking photos of our food before actually eating it is now a major phenomenon across social media — my phone would be booked and busy, always “eating first,” as the popular internet saying goes.

But looking good always comes at a price. In my case, it was a rather hefty one, considering that the plates, courtesy of Gustaf Westman Objects, currently retail for 55 euros, or a little over $62 each. My desire to have those specific plates remained unwavering, however. So I thought, “If I couldn’t buy them, why not just make them myself?”

I knew it was ridiculous — a $62 plate leading me to spend hundreds more just to try and make one? But the idea lodged in my brain like a stone in my shoe: persistent, irrational, impossible to ignore. I’m a complete novice when it comes to ceramics. The last time I even touched clay was back in elementary school art class during a brief unit on hand-building. I also had no experience using a pottery wheel. And yet, here I was. Fueled by my motivation to own a singular bubble plate and my commitment to staying frugal (if I made even ten usable pieces, I reasoned, I’d come out ahead — plus, I’d gain a new skill along the way), I signed up for my very first wheel throwing class in April.

Call it naiveté or just plain stupidity, but I showed up to my first day of class overconfident. I had watched countless videos of ceramicists compressing and lifting cylinders of clay with ease, failing to realize that they’ve been practicing the craft for years, decades even. “How hard can it truly be?” I recalled thinking to myself. Well, incredibly hard, I soon learned. To start, my form was egregiously bad. In wheel throwing, it’s important to anchor your elbows to your hips, forearms to the splash pan and thighs to the outside of your wheel — I didn’t do any of that. I couldn’t center the clay on my wheel, causing it to wobble uncontrollably as I also struggled to control the wheel’s speed, oscillating between going too slow and too fast. In one instance, I spun the wheel so fast that it sent my freshly made piece flying as I tried to cut through the clay at its base. My piece enjoyed a few seconds of airtime before tragically plopping onto the floor with an audible “splat” for everyone in the studio to hear.

I wanted to quit at that moment. “Maybe ceramics wasn’t for me,” the little voice in my head said as I recoiled from embarrassment. “And maybe, I wouldn’t be able to make a bubble plate after all.”

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There aren’t many things in life that I’ve given up on — I can thank my stubbornness for that. Ceramics certainly wasn’t going to be one of them, especially after just one class. So, I persevered.

By the third class, I had established an unspoken understanding with the clay. It’s a bit difficult to describe when things started to finally work out. I could just feel it. With my elbows anchored, I compressed my mound of clay before coning it up and down like my instructor had shown me countless times. Wet clay dribbled down my palms as I used my thumbs to gently make a hollow cavity to form the base of my piece, then gently pulled up clay to create its walls. The studio smelled faintly of wet earth and glaze, and the rhythmic hum of spinning wheels made it feel almost meditative. I was focused, and before I knew it, I had made my very first piece: a bowl. It wasn’t perfect, but it was mine.

That’s the beauty of making things with your hands: You get to revel in the arduous process of making something from scratch and once it’s complete, you’re left with something that’s uniquely yours. Ceramics taught me about patience and perseverance — the same lessons I grew to appreciate when I first started cooking and baking on my own. It also taught me about the importance of finding beauty in imperfection. There’s something almost whimsical in enjoying breakfast out of one of my lopsided, handmade bowls. Or drinking coffee from a mug that isn’t perfectly straight.

I left my first semester of ceramics class with a handful of bowls, a mini mug and a flower vase. As for the bubble plate, it remains an ongoing project — and, hopefully, a possibility during round two of classes.