There are plates. There are bowls. And then there are these—objects that refuse to commit to either, much like the most interesting people you meet at train stations in foreign countries.
Hand-thrown in a palette straight from a half-remembered dream—sage fields after rain, deep-ocean midnight just before something mythical surfaces—these wide, soft-rimmed blates are the quiet rebels of the cupboard. They do what they want. They serve pasta with the swagger of a bowl, then glide into salad duty without a whisper of complaint. They are the first to volunteer for curries. They are unfazed by breakfast.
The interiors shine like lacquered landscapes: a pale, misted green the color of linen worn thin by summer; a blue so deep you half-expect to hear whale song when you tilt it toward the light. Outside, the warm stoneware body grounds them—practical, steady, a reminder that beauty is best supported by something honest.
They stack with the confidence of seasoned travelers. They sit on the table like they’ve been there for generations. They make even a Tuesday-night meal feel as if you’ve stepped into a small, improbable café where the owner insists you stay for stories.
The Blate. For those who refuse to choose between form and function.
Color:
There are plates. There are bowls. And then there are these—objects that refuse to commit to either, much like the most interesting people you meet at train stations in foreign countries.
Hand-thrown in a palette straight from a half-remembered dream—sage fields after rain, deep-ocean midnight just before something mythical surfaces—these wide, soft-rimmed blates are the quiet rebels of the cupboard. They do what they want. They serve pasta with the swagger of a bowl, then glide into salad duty without a whisper of complaint. They are the first to volunteer for curries. They are unfazed by breakfast.
The interiors shine like lacquered landscapes: a pale, misted green the color of linen worn thin by summer; a blue so deep you half-expect to hear whale song when you tilt it toward the light. Outside, the warm stoneware body grounds them—practical, steady, a reminder that beauty is best supported by something honest.
They stack with the confidence of seasoned travelers. They sit on the table like they’ve been there for generations. They make even a Tuesday-night meal feel as if you’ve stepped into a small, improbable café where the owner insists you stay for stories.
The Blate. For those who refuse to choose between form and function.
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