They came from the forest. The hands, the stories, the pickles. Honest jars filled with time and care. We gave them a name that tasted old and true. A logo drawn like memory—in postal stamps and handcrafted lines. The forest opened on the cap, quiet but alive. You could smell the smoke, feel the hand that stirred the pot. We didn’t dress it up. Just let the truth stay on the label. You didn’t need to be told it was made with love. You could taste it. And the gut knew it was good.