Open most kitchen cupboards and the problem announces itself: a set for everyday, a set for good, and a mismatched drawer of things bought for one dinner years ago and never used since. Somewhere in there is what you actually need, but finding it means deciding, every single time, which version of yourself is hosting tonight.

Minimal hosting starts by removing that decision. Not by owning less for the sake of it, but by choosing pieces good enough that there is no everyday version left to reach past. One plate, chosen once, exactly as suited to a Tuesday supper eaten standing at the counter as it is to a guest who stayed for a second glass of wine and is still at the table an hour later.

That kind of range is harder to build into an object than abundance is. It is easy to buy three different plates for three different occasions. It is much harder to find the one that does not need replacing depending on who is sitting across from it. The easier path is always to buy more. The harder, better one is to buy once and mean it.

The Rim Plate was made with exactly that range in mind. Porcelain, with a handcrafted rustic rim and a fine speckled detail across the surface, wide enough to carry a proper serving rather than a garnish. It asks nothing of the meal placed on it, which is precisely what lets it move from breakfast to a plated main without ever looking like it is in the wrong place.

There is a kind of hosting that announces itself before the guests arrive: the extra serveware pulled out for the occasion, the good napkins found for the first time in months. Minimal hosting refuses that performance entirely. The same plate that held this morning's toast holds tonight's dinner, and neither meal has to apologise to the other for it.

By nine that plate is back on the rack, still faintly warm from the tap, waiting for whatever the evening asks of it next. It has held toast and it will hold dinner, and it never had to be swapped out in between to prove either meal mattered.