The red salt pig arrived a few days ago. I’d ordered it for my husband for Christmas, but he opened the Amazon box and saw it, miraculously unbroken, chucked in there with some nuts and bolts and wood polish. My order had gotten jumbled up with his.
“What the heck is this?” He held up the Émile Henry piece of pottery which, empty, looked like a five-inch replica of a ship’s smokestack, not like the elegant salt holder that stands proud alongside every French stove, the one I’d been meaning to buy for 10 or maybe 15 years.
“It’s called a salt pig,” I said. “It’s supposed to keep salt from clumping. Apparently ‘pig’ means ‘earthenware vessel’ in ancient Scottish.”
“Looks like a PVC pipe elbow.” He shrugged and took his new nuts and bolts to the garage.