Everything in the shop, today.

Damp grass at six in the morning, before the sun hits the orchard. Wet stone, a little geranium, a whisper of something green and bitter. I pour these in small batches in old yogurt jars I've been collecting since I opened.

Every brocante in Provence has a shelf of these and most of them are sad. This one isn't. The blue is right — that very specific French country cobalt — and the handle has the satisfying weight of something that was actually used every morning for fifty years.

Cypress, a little black pepper, a thread of vetiver underneath. It smells like the cemetery hill above Gordes in August — hot, green, dry, completely still. I blend it in 50ml batches with grain alcohol and essential oils from a distiller in Forcalquier.

Pulled from a stack of unloved paintings at the Sunday market under the canal. The man selling it told me it had been his grandmother's and she'd hated lemons her whole life — couldn't stand the smell. So it lived in the attic. I think it's wonderful.

These were everywhere in farmhouses around the Luberon a hundred years ago — every family rendered their own duck fat. Now you find them stacked in barns, dusty, behind broken chairs. This one has a fingerprint pressed into the rim from whoever made it.

From the back office of a notary in Apt who was retiring after forty-seven years. He said it had lit every important document he'd ever signed. He didn't want money for it — he wanted to know it was going somewhere nice. I told him about the shop. He nodded once and that was that.

Bought from a woman in Arles who has been hand-dyeing linen with indigo from her own garden for thirty years. She wraps each stack in brown paper and ties it with raffia, like a parcel of letters. I bought three sets and kept one for myself.

Found at an estate sale in Bonnieux, in a back bedroom that hadn't been touched since the eighties. The owner's daughter said her mother bought it in Murano on her honeymoon and never put a single flower in it. I think that's a shame. It wants peonies, or nothing.