(Item No. 42—because perfection needs no higher number.)
Discovered one languid morning in a sun-drenched kitchen on the Brittany coast, somewhere between the scent of rising bread and the sound of a wooden spoon tapping against a copper pot.
A small, humble thing—two pieces of hand-thrown stoneware that conspire, together, to keep butter exactly as the gods intended: cool, spreadable, untouched by time. The lower cup, filled with a whisper of cold water. The upper, a bell—packed with golden butter, inverted like a secret. When joined, they create a soft kiss of a seal, no air, no spoilage, only quiet perfection waiting for the morning croissant.
Glazed in cream or sea-glass blue. Feels solid in the hand. Looks as though it’s been there forever—because in France, it probably has.
For those who believe butter deserves romance.
Color:
THE FRENCH BUTTER CROCK
(Item No. 42—because perfection needs no higher number.)
Discovered one languid morning in a sun-drenched kitchen on the Brittany coast, somewhere between the scent of rising bread and the sound of a wooden spoon tapping against a copper pot.
A small, humble thing—two pieces of hand-thrown stoneware that conspire, together, to keep butter exactly as the gods intended: cool, spreadable, untouched by time. The lower cup, filled with a whisper of cold water. The upper, a bell—packed with golden butter, inverted like a secret. When joined, they create a soft kiss of a seal, no air, no spoilage, only quiet perfection waiting for the morning croissant.
Glazed in cream or sea-glass blue. Feels solid in the hand. Looks as though it’s been there forever—because in France, it probably has.
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