It started with one tiny bowl. A hand-painted treasure my husband, Chris, brought home from a market while traveling, glazed in a rustic tone with neutral hues. He set it by the stove, and soon I was tossing everything into it from chopped herbs for the evening’s soup to the last few drops of olive oil for a finishing drizzle. Little did we know that first small bowl would be the gateway to an entire menagerie of tiny, artful vessels, each with its own quirks and charms, that now infuse our kitchen with global personality and endless utility.
Chris's obsession is real, and we’ve embraced it fully. In the kitchen, small bowls are the unsung heroes of mise en place, that crucial preparation process every chef adores (well, maybe not every chef). When everything from shallots to spices has its own place, cooking becomes a choreography, a fluid sequence where everything you need is at your fingertips. And isn’t there something irresistibly satisfying about having a dish’s ingredients all laid out in charming, miniaturized versions of serving bowls? It feels organized yet artisanal, adding a satisfying rhythm to cooking. You can find me scooping a precise pinch of paprika from a deep indigo bowl from Tulum or whisking salt from a petite porcelain vessel from Paris.
Beyond their role in culinary precision, these small bowls have become the ultimate icebreakers during gatherings. Set out a few with herbs, sauces, or garnishes, and our guests are irresistibly drawn in, touching, tasting, and—naturally—chatting. They get curious about where each bowl came from, and we get to relive our travels in the process.
So yes, we're hopelessly devoted to our tiny bowls. They hold a hint of every flavor and place we've loved, they keep our kitchen charmingly organized. And, as Chris always reminds me, they are never too small to make a big impression.