The Ivory & Sterling Mystery Thingamajig Revealed

Did you correctly guess the purpose of the ivory and sterling thingamajig?

Photo: Chronica Domus

I have had such fun reading through the slew of comments received in response to the ivory and sterling thingamajig.  In fact, it has been one of the most popular mystery items in the entire series, inspiring many of you to come out of the woodwork in an attempt to solve this confounding little implement's intended purpose.  Without further ado, let's get to the answer.

The two most popular guesses were that it was either one of these ...

A marrow spoon or scoop

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or one of these ...

A Stilton scoop

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followed in hot pursuit by one of these ...

A cheese corer

(this one is an English nineteenth century oak, brass, and steel corer belonging to my husband)

Photo: Chronica Domus

I had a sneaking suspicion that these would be the top guesses, all plausible to be certain but, surprisingly, all incorrect.  

Now, I'll be honest and admit to you that I purchased the mystery thingamajig because I too thought it was a scoop to aid in the delivery of Stilton to one's plate. I have been on the hunt for such a scoop for some time but those I've come across have been rather large and unwieldy, and better suited for use with larger truckles.  

Plunged into a truckle of crumbly Stilton cheese the shovel-shaped scoop does an admirable job of delivering cheese to plate with minimal fuss and mess

Photo: Chronica Domus

Which is why when I first set eyes upon the mystery thingamajig, I knew it was going home with me.  At just shy of six inches, it was perfect for a smaller truckle. It could also, I supposed, be used to scoop out potted Stilton.  As a bonus, the sterling shank was fashioned into an unusual hemispherical scoop rather than the typical shovel shape.  

The description on the dealer's tag read "English sterling Stilton scoop with bone handle" but my teenage daughter saw things differently

Photo: Chronica Domus

My observant and inquisitive teenage daughter took one look at my newly acquired prize and deemed it an apple corer.  "An apple corer?" I repeated, "surely not".  I was left somewhat slack-jawed by the suggestion but, suddenly, the shape of the scoop made perfect sense.  Sure enough, a quick gander on the Internet confirmed her suspicions.  Who'da thunk it?!  

Here's one made by Thomas Hyde I of London, circa 1770 ...

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... and another, a Georgian ivory and sterling apple corer, circa 1816

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I marvel at the fact that I am now the proud owner of an apple corer for the first time in my life.  And, its an elegant one at that.  I had no idea such utilitarian kitchen objects could be elevated to the sublime.  

My thingamajig apple corer was made in London by silversmith Henry Holland Sr. in 1853

Photo: Chronica Domus

It does a masterly job of removing the core from the last of the winter farmers' market apples

Photo: Chronica Domus

Photo: Chronica Domus

What a satisfyingly elegant way of performing a basic kitchen task

Photo: Chronica Domus

As it turns out, my apple corer is far from being deemed one of the more elegant examples available for sale during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries.  Those were made entirely of sterling silver, like the one pictured below:

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Some apple corers were even designed to be portable and used during travel or for picnicking.  The corer can be unscrewed from its handle and stored within it when not in use.

A Georgian sterling silver traveling apple corer, London circa 1803

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If you are interested in learning more about these little-known utensils, I highly recommend you read Dorothea Burstyn's informative article found here.

Thank you all for participating in what I hope has been a fun and enlightening guessing game.  I believe my daughter won this round and has earned her ranking, having been the only participant to have correctly solved the mystery of the ivory and sterling thingamajig.  She was also the inspiration for this post, of course.

Source: Pinterest

Do please join me in giving her a well-deserved round of appl(e)ause.

When A Salt Spoon Just Doesn't Cut The Mustard

The unassuming entrance of The London Silver Vaults does not betray the dazzling Aladdin's cave that awaits within

Photo: Chronica Domus

I've been on the hunt for a silver Georgian mustard pot.  I've always fancied the idea of delivering a dollop of biting mustard to one's dinner plate from an elegant receptacle aided, of course, by a small spoon made expressly for the purpose of this pleasurable task.

I just knew I'd chance upon the perfect pot during my recent visit to England which, I'm chuffed to report, I did.  Well, actually, my eagle-eyed husband did, one afternoon while out and about with my sister Penelope and me in Hertfordshire.  He's very well trained in these matters and enjoys the hunt as much as I. The drum-shaped sterling pot is two inches tall and was made in England in 1821.  It has an 'S' handle embellished with a leaf design.  When the thumb piece is depressed, it raises the flat lid. Happily, the original Bristol blue glass liner remains intact.  It slips smoothly into the mustard pot and is designed to facilitate ease of cleaning (I would not recommend buying a pot without its liner as replacements rarely fit correctly).  A family crest is centrally engraved upon the lid and appears to be a large breed dog, possibly an Irish Wolfhound.  I am thrilled my husband found it (thank you, dear!).

Of course, every mustard pot deserves a spoon. As such, my thoughts turned to the American coin silver salt spoon I acquired last December, of which I wrote about here. My intention was to repurpose it for mustard.  Would it appear a tad overbearing in scale and decoration as compared to the diminutive pot I wondered?  Realizing rather quickly that it would simply not cut the mustard (sorry, I am British after all, and one does so enjoy a little punning every now and then), a visit to my favorite London silversmith, William Walter Antique Silver was soon on the cards.

Now, let me tell you, this is no ordinary shop.  It really is not a shop at all in the conventional sense. You see business is, in fact, conducted from Vault Number 3 and 5, located deep beneath the capital's pounding pavements inside The London Silver Vaults.

Moving past the security desk and down into the vaults we descend

Photo: Chronica Domus

For anyone interested in viewing or acquiring household silver objects of every imaginable function and size (I'm not kidding, there's even a silver bed down there!), The London Silver Vaults should be your first port of call.  Once downstairs, meandering the warren of shops at leisure is a singular experience. Not only are the wares dazzling in terms of appearance and sheer quantity, but wandering from one vault to another, through heavy iron doors, is nothing short of surreal.  It is as though one has been let loose within the deepest recesses of Fort Knox.

Photography is not permitted downstairs but I did find this image on-line showing some of the vault doors which are kept open during business hours

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Now, getting back to the matter at hand, a spoon befitting my Georgian mustard pot. I had no doubt that John, who heads the team at William Walter, and with whom I've had the pleasure of purchasing several items of silver in the past, would be able to help.  I was not disappointed.  Laying down a flotilla of small spoons for my perusal - some used for salt, some for mustard, and others for goodness only knows what - I was spoilt for choice.  There were dozens of them!  John explained the large and varied stock of old silver at William Walter has been accumulated over a period of about sixty years.  This provides his lucky patrons with a broad selection of whatever it is they are seeking to purchase.

I believe the little mustard spoon I selected (whose elongated bowl sets it apart from those of rounded salt spoons) is perfectly scaled for use with my mustard pot.  And, it sits comfortably within the lid's slot. It is also period appropriate having been made in 1813 by Richard Stevens of Dublin, Ireland.  It too possesses a family crest, a bull.

I could not be more delighted to marry the Irish Georgian mustard spoon to the English Georgian mustard pot, a match made in heaven!

Photo: Chronica Domus

Another view of the mustard pot, its original Bristol blue glass liner, and the Irish Georgian mustard spoon
Photo: Chronica Domus

John not only has an extensive knowledge of old silver - to describe him as encyclopedic is not an exaggeration in the least - but he also has a true passion for the subject.  This is evident to anyone chatting to him for even a few minutes.  When doing so, be fully prepared to be dazzled by a silver oddity or two, followed immediately with an amusing tidbit about its history.  John's stories are always enthusiastically relayed for his fortunate audience's edification.

When I inquired about viewing, and subsequently purchasing, a sherry bottle ticket from his stash, John asked me what I thought was so unusual about the item.  Not surprisingly, I was stumped. He explained that the original black wax which fills the indentations of the letters S-H-E-R-R-Y remains intact, something not often seen after a few centuries of use.  Oh dear, I thought to myself, before making an alarming confession. I had tried in vein to remove what I thought was tarnish from the reeded decoration of a port bottle ticket I have at home... oops!

Lessons Learned: John tells me that the original black wax on the lettering of my Sherry bottle ticket, made by Charles Rawlings of London in 1828, is still intact unlike the wax from the reeded decoration around my Port label which I've foolishly attempted to remove believing it to be tarnish

Photo: Chronica Domus

This photograph, which John kindly allowed me to take on a previous visit, shows just a drop in the bucket of the goodies available for purchase at William Walter Antique Silver 

Photo: Chronica Domus

I do hope you make time to drop into The London Silver Vaults and visit John at William Walter Antique Silver when next in town.  I promise your efforts will be rewarded with a unique shopping (or browsing) experience.  There is, of course, no obligation to buy.  However, if you are inclined to enjoy shiny and beautiful objects, you'll find it very easy to empty the coffers, and happily so.

Now that I've secured the perfect mustard spoon for my pot, the only decision remaining is which of the trio of mustards will fill the Bristol blue glass liner next*

Photo: Chronica Domus

Nota bene: I am neither paid nor do I receive recompense in exchange for applauding products or services within my blog.  I do so because I enjoy them.  If you are a kindred spirit, you too enjoy recommending nice things to fellow good eggs.


*For those interested, the walnut Dijon mustard won this round

Arcane Dining Oddities: Papier-Mâché Wine Coasters

English Regency papier-mâché wine coasters nestle a pair of ring-neck 

decanters of the same period

Photo: Chronica Domus

I have long admired the elegant appurtenances of well laid dining tables of Regency England. Aesthetically restrained in form, they were the antithesis of excessive fussiness associated with Victorian tastes. And, unlike the confounding array of dining implements that materialized during Victoria's reign, which have long passed from favor (ice cream forks anyone?), basic dining utensils and table articles of the Regency are still recognizable to modern diners.  There is, however, one very practical item that has regrettably vanished from the landscape of the dining table; the papier-mâché wine coaster.

Our small but growing collection of early-nineteenth century papier-mâché wine coasters

Photo: Chronica Domus

Bottle coasters, decanter slides, or wine coasters are all terms used to describe the same thing.  Its purpose is to facilitate the act of sliding or coasting wine or spirit decanters to one's fellow dining companions with ease.  Baize, a coarse woolen material typically green in color, lines the bottom surface of this useful table article. It is the baize that ultimately enables the wine coaster to glide, or coast, across the polished surface of a dining table.

Although faded, the baize on this wine coaster, circa 1810, is original

Photo: Chronica Domus

Of course, if the table is to be set with a cloth, wine coasters are checked in their purpose and impeded from sliding. They do still function toward more practical ends, keeping them relevant, at least in our household. Who, I ask you, enjoys the labor of removing wine stains from their napery? Not I! So, when these coasters are set beneath our glass decanters, they do an admirable job of corralling the errant dribble of wine which may escape even the most careful of host.  One's lily white tablecloth remains just so.

Evidently, the tipsy Prince Regent chose wisely when selecting the color of his tablecloth. His over-worked wine coaster stood little chance of containing the waterfall of drips created during his bacchanalian bender

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You may be asking yourself why on earth such a thing might be constructed of paper, as moisture is its natural enemy.  As you may well imagine, papier-mâché wine coasters are somewhat of a rarity nowadays, at least when compared to their sturdier cousins born of silver and wood.  I am confident their scarcity has everything to do with the fact that great numbers of them were ruined through use, despite their lacquered surface which, in theory, promised a more durable finish.

This pair of deep green colored wine coasters, circa 1815 to 1820, is in exceptional shape due to the lacquered surface remaining intact

Photo: Chronica Domus

Ultimately, the passage of time would lead to their demise.  The modern habit of serving wine directly from the bottle did not help their cause either.  Although the majority of today's vintners employ modern filtration methods, eliminating pesky sediment and a genuine need to decant, we still opt to press our pretty decanters and their corresponding coasters into service. Besides, red wines in particular can benefit from aeration.  Surprisingly, so do whites. Unless you use a dedicated wine refrigerator that is perfectly programmed to cool white wines, most standard refrigerators overly-cool them.  Decanting lessens the chill factor making the experience of sipping a glass or three of Sauvignon blanc a far more delightful experience. Cheers!

Here's a snap of a dinner party we held for friends this past April showing the placement of our decanters and papier-mâché coasters at the head and foot of the dining table (prior to my husband having filled them). So much nicer than plonking bottles of wine directly on the table, would you not agree?

Photo: Chronica Domus

The papier-mâché wine coasters in our collection all date to the first half of the nineteenth century and are all English.  They make the perfect foil for the Regency period ring-neck decanters that rest within them during our dinner parties.

I purchased my first wine coaster, seen in the following photograph, from a dealer in London about a dozen years ago.  He told me that black coasters are as scarce as hen's teeth, which, of course immediately made me wonder if I would ever find another like it to assemble a pair. All these years later, I am still on the hunt. The sole decoration embellishing this coaster, which dates to about 1810, is a fine charcoal colored stripe around its top and base, sublimely subtle and rather lovely to my eye.

Photo: Chronica Domus

A more fanciful version for these papier-mâché wine coasters came in the form of a trolley.  Oh, the spectacle of sending these delightful vehicles into action and observing them being wheeled from one happy imbiber to the next!  I imagine such antics could easily get a little out of hand after downing one too many.  That is, if I were anywhere near them I mean.

A rare pair of papier-mâché decanter trolleys, circa 1850-20, could be yours for
the princely sum of $12,850

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I am not certain what this lozenge-shaped early toleware piece was intended for, but when I spotted its gilded tendrils and vine leaf decoration, I had to add it to my collection for use as a wine coaster.

What could this early toleware object have held?

Photo: Chronica Domus

Luckily for me, it is perfectly proportioned to hold a pair of early-nineteenth century barrel-shaped cut glass spirit decanters. I am, to say the least, thrilled with it.

Photo: Chronica Domus

Perhaps you too will unearth a wine coaster on your travels to a preferred antiques shop or an auction room.  If ever you do, I would encourage you to consider its purchase.

Photo: Chronica Domus

For the next time someone asks you to "Pass the port, please!", you'll not only be doing so with style and ease, but with the knowledge that your tabletop is to remain unmarred from the effects of a good vintage.

382: A Slop Bowl Revelation

Photo: Chronica Domus

One of the most fulfilling aspects of writing Chronica Domus is the interaction I share with you, my readership, through the comments section. I enjoy the stories you share, the wit, repartee, and the nuggets of knowledge you collectively pass along.  I always learn something new, thank you.

Occasionally I receive emails too.  One morning last week, while enjoying my early morning cuppa, a most interesting email from a reader in the United Kingdom landed in my message box. Fiona, a keen collector of Spode ceramics, wrote to tell me that she had read my post on slop bowls, found here, and wanted to share some information on the bowl which I had described as a particular favorite of mine.  It is pictured in the photograph above.

Fiona kindly informed me that I had erroneously written that the bowl had been decorated using a process known as bat printing.  She went on to explain that the monochrome pastoral scenes had in fact been accomplished by hand painting. Furthermore, Fiona was able to pinpoint the exact year of manufacture, 1803, which was two years earlier than my best guess. I was gobsmacked. How, I wondered, had she known all this?  I had long assumed that these early pieces were exclusively decorated through the bat printed method.

Fiona's extensive knowledge of early Spode led her to believe my bowl had a pattern number associated with the decoration, 382.  Champing at the bit in anticipation of validating Fiona's hunch, I toddled over to my slop bowl, which currently resides atop the drawing room's secretary bookcase.  I took a quick gander at its base, and there they were.  Three little numbers, 382.  Fiona was indeed correct. 

Photo: Chronica Domus

No doubt about it now, this bowl had been hand painted and not bat printed as I had mistakenly assumed

Photo: Chronica Domus

Suddenly, I was staring at what I had previously thought to have been printed scenes with fresh perspective and slightly wider eyes. The little vignettes were very obviously painted by a skilled artist upon closer examination, something I would have missed entirely were it not for Fiona's astute observations. No wonder this particular slop bowl appealed so strongly!  It has long become a most cherished bowl, particularly because of its handsome decoration.  Knowing it was hand painted has only increased its charm and appeal.  I adore it.

Ever the dipso that I am for knowledge, and having had my curiosity aroused by Fiona, my thoughts turned next to the various cups and saucers I own bearing similar vignettes to the slop bowl.  Had I been wrong about those pieces too? Were they also hand painted? Individually painted ceramics represented a far more costly method of decoration than bat printing, and certainly more time consuming to be sure.  I could not wait to investigate.

A quick fumble through my groaning cupboards produced several examples, each baring varied bucolic landscape scenes.  At first glance, my untrained eye was not able to detect any perceptible difference in decoration. Pattern marks on the undersides of the cups and saucers were lacking, which was of no help to me. Apparently, only the larger, more expensive items were marked at the factory during the company's early days. Having lingered over the individual pieces for a few moments longer, I was finally convinced that there had indeed been more than one method employed in decorating these handsome ceramics. Here is what I found.

A Spode bat printed cup and saucer

Photo: Chronica Domus

...and 

A Spode hand painted cup and saucer

Photo: Chronica Domus

Now, as many of you might have already detected, details excite me. I relish them, in fact. Bearing this in mind, you'll quite understand the level of excitement that Fiona's revelation had sparked within me. I was now looking at my early Spode wares with new found interest and fascination.

The first cup and saucer set appeared more silvery grey in tone and less detailed than the second.  The scenes are more dotty in appearance when viewed from close proximity.  The second cup and saucer set achieves its look through a denser form of decoration.  One can clearly identify it is hand painted when studying the delicate and painstakingly detailed brush strokes that went into painting the foliage of the trees. The color appears to veer towards a charcoal grey when compared to the first cup and saucer.

Consulting my well-thumbed copy of  Mr. Godden's An Illustrated Encyclopaedia of British Pottery and Porcelain, I discover an illustration straight from Spode's pattern book of the hand painted Pattern 382.

Pattern 382 lifted directly from Spode's factory pattern book appears in Mr. Godden's tome identifying the decoration as having been hand painted

Photo: Chronica Domus

Fiona's email further states that the hand painted pieces were a fore-runner to the bat printed wares, which is how she was able to accurately date my slop bowl to 1803. Hand painting was performed for only about a year before bat printing was introduced.

Pieces of Pattern 382 as shown on Page 300 of Mr. Godden's tome confirming my slop bowl was indeed decorated by hand

Photo: Chronica Domus

On the opposite page, Mr. Godden showcases similar tea wares decorated using bat prints.

Ah, there they are, my bat printed cups and saucers

Photo: Chronica Domus

I cannot thank the knowledgeable Fiona enough for her email and my ensuing enlightenment regarding these attractive ceramics.  They bring me abundant joy with their use. What is the point of owning such pretty little things if they are solely to be admired from afar?  I believe it is always much more pleasurable, and fun, to put these objects to good service. Besides, I cannot express enough how delicious tea tastes while being sipped from thin-walled bone china cups.

Fiona, my untrained eye has forever been honed, and for that I am most eternally grateful to you. Thank you.

Do any of you own a treasure that brought you much joy only to be further enhanced by the discovery of its provenance or manufacture?  Do please tell me about it.

Arcane Dining Oddities: The Mystery Trident Fork Revealed

Well, that was a lot of fun!  Thank you all for playing along and taking a stab at demystifying the dining utensil I featured in my prior post.  I enjoyed reading your guesses and was not at all surprised that some of you thought the fork would be used to help carve or serve meat.  It is certainly hefty enough and would be quite suited to lifting a slice or two of roast beef or ham to place upon one's plate during Sunday lunch.

Won't you help yourself to a slice or two of bread?

Photo: Chronica Domus

Well done to those of you who posited the fork had something to do with bread.  The trident-shaped utensil was indeed designed for the express purpose of delivering one's daily bread safely to one's plate without actually touching said bread in the process. In all honesty, I find this all a little too genteel for my liking and much prefer to pass the bread plate or basket to my guests so that they can help themselves with their very own fingers.  It is efficient and not at all fussy, don't you agree? However, I have found other uses for this beautiful arcane piece of cutlery so it remains a practical item when entertaining even to this day.  We pass the fork alongside a plate of  hot baked potatoes, or whenever we serve individual Yorkshire puddings at dinner, or popovers for brunch.  During the summer months, when watermelons are at their most flavorful, a bread fork is the perfect delivery system for helping oneself to large pieces of the refreshing fruit.

The bread fork was a popular item at formally set tables in the United Kingdon during the mid-nineteenth century and into the early decades of the twentieth. Obviously, Bertie Wooster and his natty friends at the Drones Club managed quite well without.

One of the infamous bread roll tosses during a typical luncheon at the Drones Club
Nota bene: This particular author would love nothing more than to join in on the rollicking good fun being had by all and might soon attempt such antics at her own dining table under the right circumstances.

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It was once considered quite impolite to touch most food items with bare hands, but bread was one of the few exception to this rule. As such, it really baffles the mind as to why these forks were even invented.  Ironically, polite society dictated that once a slice of bread or roll was safely deposited on a diner's plate with the use of the bread fork, it was perfectly acceptable to break it apart with fingers for consumption.

I believe my fork was made toward the end of the nineteenth century and was likely marketed to middle-class families due to the quality of the materials and design. I've seen similar bread forks constructed of lighter weight pressed metals that were electroplated in nickel silver with mother-of-pearl handles. I've also encountered handles of simulated ivory and also of stag antler, the latter of which was one of the dearer (sorry for the pun) examples available for purchase.

Now that we are all well versed in the use of this arcane dining oddity, I wonder how long it will be until you too run into one for sale at an antiques shop or flea market. Perhaps when you do, you'll consider taking it home and finding a new use for it which is, after all, part of the fun of owning these things.  At the very least, it will make for an interesting dinner conversation.

Arcane Dining Oddities: Poseidon's Trident? Devilish Pitchfork?

Can you guess the purpose of this fork?

Photo: Chronica Domus

Hot on the heels of Lindaraxa's marvelous post about a mystery dining implement that she so deliciously teased her loyal readers with - and quite frankly left this author befuddled and on the edge of her seat awaiting the big reveal - comes a mystery object from my own collection.

I have toyed with the idea of publishing a post on my Poseidon's trident (or would that be a devilish pitchfork?) for a number of weeks now and Lindaraxa's tantalizing conundrum finally provided the impetus I sought to get my act in gear.  I suspect, like me, you too may enjoy a little puzzle to rattle your gray matter.

Admittedly, the task of this treasured little item delivers something far less exotic to hungry diners at table than Lindaraxa's fork.  The trident is made of sterling silver and is mounted to a faux-ivory handle by way of a decorative collar.  Aside from this minor decoration, the seven and a half inch utensil is really rather spare, which to my eye makes it all the more appealing.

I espied my mystery object laying in a glass case of an antiques shop in England about a dozen years ago. When I asked the assistant what it was that I was looking at, and she enlightened me, well, there was really only one thing for it.  I had to have it.

Photo: Chronica Domus

Can you guess the purpose of this fork?  Remember, no cheating through the use of your search engine now!

Arcane Dining Oddities: The Slop Bowl

Photo: Chronica Domus

It has been sometime since I last published a post on Arcane Dining Oddities, so today I'd like to remedy this by introducing you to the lowly slop bowl.

With such an unappetizing name, you might well be asking yourself  "what, in heaven's name, is a slop bowl"?  Is it, perhaps, a bowl from which to serve thin gruel? Might its purpose be to hold a dog's dinner?  A slop bowl would certainly make an exceedingly stylish kibble bowl, particularly if one were the owner of a small pampered pooch.  This all sounds like fodder for one of my Relics Reimagined posts, come to think of it.

"No, the silver slop bowl does not contain your dinner you naughty little dog!"

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Made of metal or some type of ceramic, a slop bowl's sole purpose was for the collection of dregs from the bottom of one's tea cup.  Leftover tea, along with any tea leaves, would be placed into the bowl in preparation for pouring another round of tea.  Once considered an essential piece of tea time equipage, the slop bowl, alas, is no longer to be found as part of a modern day tea service.

Its demise may have had something to do with the popularity of the dreaded tea bag, convenient in a pinch to be sure, but please loose tea, always!  The invention of strainers, held over tea cups to catch errant tea leaves as they escape from a pot's spout, has also rendered the slop bowl inessential.

Obviously these rakish dandies have misplaced their slop bowl, along with the host's saucer - the horror of it all!

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Of course none of this obsolescence matters to me as I take pleasure in using my slop bowls and have no trouble setting them to good purpose.  It only dawned on me when taking the photographs to accompany this post that I've somehow amassed an embarrassing number of these rather handy little bowls over the years.  Several of them were found with their accompanying tea or coffee pots, milk jugs, and sugar basins.  Others were purchased individually, having long become separated from their tea mates.

The examples I show from my collection mostly date from the first half of the nineteenth century, with a few that were possibly manufactured as early as the 1790's. All are of English origin and decorated with bat prints or restrained bands of color and wisps of gilding.  The bowls vary in size but most are about five inches across and three to four inches in height.

One of my favorite slop bowls is the one shown in the photograph below.  I am partial to its delicate grisaille toned vignettes, known as bat prints, a popular form of decoration employed by Josiah Spode and his contemporaries, during the early nineteenth century.  I date the bowl to around 1805 and I feel most fortunate to have it in my collection, together with a number of tea cups and saucers showing similar landscape prints.  I cannot tell you how delicious and flavorful tea tastes when sipped from one of these delicate bone china cups, an altogether different experience from the thicker-walled tea cups or mugs of today.  

An English Regency era slop bowl manufactured by Spode in 1805

Photo: Chronica Domus

A view of the other side showing a charming scene of two ramblers traversing an idyllic landscape

Photo: Chronica Domus

The much squatter bowl seen below exhibits yet another bat print, this time showing what appears to be a church-like building set among trees and hills.  I am uncertain as to which of the British ceramic factories made this bowl, but if I were to guess, I'd say New Hall.

A detailed view of my New Hall(?) slop bowl

Photo: Chronica Domus

Several years ago, on a summer's walk through the town of St. Albans, located in Hertfordshire, I spied the bowl seen below, through the shop window of an antiques dealer.

A Barr Flight slop bowl circa 1792 to 1807 appearing a little more vivid in color than in the flesh

Photo: Chronica Domus

I instantly fell in love with the burnt orange ground and delicate gilt foliate decoration. To my dismay, the shop was closed.  It was, after all, a Sunday afternoon, a time when not much is open for business in the smaller towns of England. I telephoned the shop the following morning inquiring about the bowl and was informed by the very knowledgeable and chatty owner that it formed part of a tea service of half a dozen cups and saucers, a sugar basin, milk jug, and a teapot stand. Sadly, the teapot had most likely met a gruesome death at some point in its history. My heart raced as I sheepishly asked the price for all sixteen pieces.  I almost fainted upon hearing it. Really, it was very reasonable for such things.  In a fit of extravagance (it wasn't as though I actually needed yet more tea wares), I committed to purchasing the lot and asked my very nice father if he could drive me back to St. Albans from my parents' house in London to pick up my loot.  If any one knows where a teapot of this design lurks, I'd love to hear from you.

A rarity in my collection is a slop bowl that posed quite a mystery for Geoffrey Godden, one of the most distinguished experts in the field of nineteenth century English ceramics.

The mystery orange and gilt slop bowl now in my collection

Photo: Chronica Domus

The indefatigable Mr. Godden has written numerous books on the subject and as you can imagine, has assembled many pieces for his reference collection.  Every now and then, Mr. Godden releases a number of those pieces for sale at auction.  I happened to take rather a fancy to the bowl in the preceding photograph, adoring its spare orange and gilt decoration.  I ended up as the successful bidder on both the bowl and a plate of the same design.

I was delighted to have discovered a paper label attached to the underside of the bowl. It reads "GODDEN REFERENCE COLLECTION rare pattern book class?", with pattern number "116" written in gilt paint.

The provenance of the mystery slop bowl has stumped even the experts

Photo: Chronica Domus

I am certainly no expert in these matters, not by any stretch of the imagination, but I do see a resemblance in form to the orange colored Barr Flight bowl I show earlier in this post.  I love a good mystery and wonder if Mr. Godden also considered this fact in his examination of the unidentified slop bowl.

Notice how the shape of this slop bowl closely resembles that of the Barr Flight example

Photo: Chronica Domus 

Another star of my collection is one that Reggie Darling would instantly recognize, being that he too is a fan of this classically inspired motif and a fellow ceramics collector.  He wrote a wonderful post several years ago about his urn saucer which is adorned with the same exquisite classical urn found on my slop bowl.  I located this elegant example in England, along with two companion pieces, and it takes my breath away each time I lay eyes on it.  It is sublime.

A Factory Z Thomas Wolfe slop bowl circa 1800

Photo: Chronica Domus

In researching this post, I discovered that this particular pattern was a mystery piece for a number of years and fell into the "Factory Z" category of British ceramics, a catch-all place for unidentified patterns.  Following extensive research, the ceramic experts have since identified the decoration as "Pattern Number 24", manufactured by Thomas Wolfe at The Potteries in Stoke-on-Trent, England.

A Davenport black basalt slop bowl circa 1800 to 1810

Photo: Chronica Domus

Regular readers of this blog will no doubt be aware of my black basalt bent, so it will come as no surprise that a basalt slop bowl forms part of my collection.  This one was made by Davenport and is adorned with a graphic engine-turned decoration that would not look so out of place in today's modern world. Michelin tire treads spring to mind, wouldn't you agree?

Photo: Chronica Domus

I find slop bowls are not only a pleasure to look at, they are also very useful items to employ for entertaining. I've used mine to hold dips and spreads when serving hors d'oeuvres, and for lashings of whipped cream when serving dessert at the conclusion of a dinner party.  They make excellent receptacles for nuts at cocktail hour, and I've even pressed my basalt bowl into service for hyacinth forcing.

I hope you've enjoyed this introduction to the obsolete and arcane slop bowl, and would consider seeking one or two of these serviceable bowls for use in your own home.  You might very well find them mislabeled as sugar basins, which were typically much narrower and taller and often designed with handles and a lid, but now you know better.