«What is on the dish cannot be seen, because the stroke is made of water. As it dries, the salt clings to the stroke and draws it.»
«Dry it too fast and you get powder. Dry it too slowly and the grain grows and eats the drawing. And with too little salt there is nothing to paint it with.»
In the cupboard there was an empty clay dish and a notebook full of notes about drying. The dish is not empty: it carries a stroke drawn in clean water, invisible, waiting for someone to cover it in brine and dry it properly. Neither all at once nor at leisure: just right.
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