Zippy Cups: The Clay Keeps What the Hands Remember

I didn’t set out to design a product. I set out to make a cup.

A small one. Simple. No handle, no fuss. Just something that felt good in the hand, warm to the touch, and could carry that second hit of coffee—the “let’s do this” one—after the school drop-off chaos had cleared and the kettle had been boiled again.

We’d just welcomed a Nespresso machine into our kitchen—one of those adult purchases that feels simultaneously too indulgent and long overdue—and I wanted a little cup that fit the moment. Something my husband and I could reach for in the lull between morning meetings and laundry piles. A vessel for espresso that wasn't dainty or decorative, but strong, humble, grounding. One that could also hold a 10pm brew when the house was finally quiet, the lights were low, and we were winding down the way we always do—with a hot drink in hand and maybe a bit of something sweet on the side.

So I made us two. Then I made a couple more for my brother. And then—quietly, without fanfare—they just became part of our rhythm.

The Real Test: Daily Life

We didn’t tiptoe around them. These cups were used and washed, sometimes left on the bathroom shelf, often found beside the bed. They were carried out to the garden. Clinked against each other in sleepy cheers. Washed and reused and lived with.

And what I realised over time was… we always reached for them.

There’s something in the scale of them. The way they nestle into your hand just right. The gentle curve of the rim. The weight—not heavy, not too light. They became our cups. The kind of thing guests would comment on, and I’d say, “Oh I made those ages ago, just for us.”

And somewhere in that quiet repetition, in the real-life testing, I decided to offer them as a preorder. Not as a product dreamed up to fill a gap in a shop. But as something that had already proven itself—again and again—through use, love, and time.

Form Follows Feeling

Every Zippy Cup is thrown on the wheel in my tiny studio (affectionately known as the TARDIS). They’re made with that same intention I had years ago: to feel good. To serve a moment. To be used and not fussed over.

They’re handleless, but not fragile. Small, but substantial. And when you wrap your fingers around one, you feel the echo of the making—each ridge, each little wobble, each thumb press. That’s the magic of slow-made pottery: it remembers.

The glazes—they came later, chosen for how they interact with light, with steam, with the changing seasons outside the farmhouse windows. But at its core, the Zippy Cup hasn’t changed much from that first version I made for our kitchen shelf.

It was never meant to be flashy. It was meant to work.

Making With the Body in Mind

I think the best pottery is made with the body in mind. Not just how it looks, but how it feels in use. The Zippy Cups have been held by cold hands and tired ones, joyful ones and overwhelmed ones. They’ve been part of my own rituals for years now—and that’s how I know they hold up.

There’s something powerful in living with the work. In testing it the way your customer will. It means when I make a new batch now, I do it with years of muscle memory and a deep knowing of how these cups fit into real life.

So no, the Zippy Cup wasn’t part of a clever business plan. It came from a very real part of my life, and I love that people now want to fold it into theirs.

Not a Product. A Companion.

Pottery like this isn’t just about aesthetics or matching a kitchen shelf. It’s about the rituals we build around our daily pauses. The small, grounding acts that tether us to the present.

The Zippy Cup started with two people, a Nespresso machine, and a need for something honest. It grew from there, not by force, but by being quietly useful.

And to me, that’s the best kind of design.

Until next time,
Nawsheen, your friendly homebody artist from Murrumbateman.