You could keep your salt in a cardboard box with a metal spout. Many people do. Those people do not concern us here.
These small, three-legged vessels—salt cauldrons, really—look as though they were rescued from the hearth of an old stone kitchen where someone still cooks by instinct and never measures unless someone is watching. They stand there, stout and self-possessed, each perched on its tiny tripod feet like it’s guarding something valuable. Which, of course, it is.
Each cauldron comes with a tiny wooden spoon—more wand than utensil—which allows you to sprinkle seasoning with just enough theatricality to make your dinner guests suspect you’ve recently traveled somewhere interesting.
Compact, sturdy, and quietly dramatic, these are not mere kitchen jars. They are miniature monuments to flavor.
The Salt Cauldron. For those who know that a pinch of salt is not a measurement—it’s a spell.
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You could keep your salt in a cardboard box with a metal spout. Many people do. Those people do not concern us here.
These small, three-legged vessels—salt cauldrons, really—look as though they were rescued from the hearth of an old stone kitchen where someone still cooks by instinct and never measures unless someone is watching. They stand there, stout and self-possessed, each perched on its tiny tripod feet like it’s guarding something valuable. Which, of course, it is.
Each cauldron comes with a tiny wooden spoon—more wand than utensil—which allows you to sprinkle seasoning with just enough theatricality to make your dinner guests suspect you’ve recently traveled somewhere interesting.
Compact, sturdy, and quietly dramatic, these are not mere kitchen jars. They are miniature monuments to flavor.
The Salt Cauldron. For those who know that a pinch of salt is not a measurement—it’s a spell.
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