Look closely. Doesn’t it look like beach rock, something volcanic, craggy and ancient?
We grind our pepper by hand, in the mortar and pestle. Result — imperfection.
I love that.
Since the Chef moved in, we store kosher salt and cracked black pepper in red ramekins or the small earthenware pots that once contained soft St. Marcellin cheese. There they sit, stock little soldiers of seasoning, ready to be of service. I long ago let go of the need for a pepper grinder, with a handle, which left my hands clean. Instead, I love to dab and pinch, let the fleur de sel settle down into the folds of leeks slowly simmering, or watch the black pepper rain down onto the lamb and roasted tomatoes to flavor that stew.
Everything in the world fascinates me.