Knitted by
hand.
Cosmetics from an alpine meadow: cooked in small batches, checked by a pharmacist, signed by name. Pull the thread — it leads.


It all begins in the meadow.
We pick chamomile at dawn, before the dew lifts — that hour gives the flower its most essential oil, the basket its most summer. Some grows in my garden, some in an Austrian forest; oils from far countries arrive honestly labelled. Every herbarium sheet says so: my garden · Austrian forest · imported — and from where.


Nothing here is in a hurry.
A cream cannot be rushed — it does not forgive. So: lowest temperature, jeweller's scale, 0.01 grams. Whisk for actives, thermometer for the oil phase, pH meter for the last check. Every batch gets a number and a cooking date — a diary page. While you read this, batch No. 15 ripens on the stove.


Beauty is precision.
I am a pharmacist — so no “parfum” here unexplained, no percentage without a method. Skin is not a battlefield: dryness and sensitivity are signals, not enemies; we listen and support, not suppress. We read Ayurveda as pharmacists: not esoterica, a system of balance. We do not promise. We show: the full Latin formula, each active's dose, the finished product's pH, each herb's origin.

Madder — the plant that dyes the thread: Ayurveda calls its root manjistha.
Care has a season.
The meadow does not work all year — and we do not pretend otherwise. Birch sap is March, chamomile July, sea buckthorn September. The wheel shows what blooms now and which batch comes of it.
The season is part of the balance.
Small batches. Living stock.
On the Shelf there is no “always in stock” — there is “nine of sixteen left”. Small batches are not scarcity marketing but respect for living ingredients: oils and herbs have character, and it changes with time. What runs out returns with its season, and if you reserve, the waiting list will email you on pouring day.
This workshop has a home.
In it live a dog first onto the chamomile path; a cat stricter with the scales than an auditor; two rabbits — heads of carrot tasting. In the garden, sage and calendula; in the attic, drying herbs; on the sill, cooling sourdough. Not a production line. A home where things are cooked.


Letters from the workshop.
Every two or three weeks I write: what bloomed, what was cooked, baked, knitted — and honestly, where cosmetics end and a way of life begins. No sales out of nowhere — only the workshop as it is.
I write rarely and to the point: on pouring day and at the start of a season. One line unsubscribes you.

