The unique box of chocolates

Earlier this year, I received an enquiry I hadn’t expected at all. A lovely mother and warm-hearted grandmother had visited an exhibition where some of my pieces were on display. Shortly afterwards, she wrote to me: her son was getting married soon and she was looking for a very special gift – something personal and handmade.

Her idea was as thoughtful as it was steeped in tradition: a praline box made of fine wood. Behind this request lay a very special family story. In this family, it is a long-standing tradition to make their own pralines together every Christmas. These handmade delicacies now needed a fitting home that would capture the warmth of those shared moments and serve as a lasting memento of family bonds for the bride and groom.

My first thought? A praline box? Exciting. Special. I began to explore the subject. I immersed myself in a world I’d never known before – packaging, storage, and the presentation of small, exquisite items. And I soon realised: there’s a great deal of potential here. How do you design an object that not only protects fine pralines but also showcases them to their best advantage? One that conveys quality without seeming aloof? Something that makes the pleasure palpable the moment you open the box.

We discussed various shapes and joints, and we asked ourselves what the tactile sensation should be like when lifting the lid. When choosing the wood, we opted for walnut. This dark, elegant wood tells a story simply through the way it feels to the touch. Walnut is not a wood to be used carelessly. It is one that you are happy to present to someone.

It wasn’t a classic design problem that needed solving. The function was clear; the object – a praline box – comes in countless variations. The real challenge lay elsewhere: to design something that is familiar, seen everywhere, and yet to give it a new, high-quality significance. The aim was to lend a gift a sense of value without descending into decorative arbitrariness.

I drove to Amriswil with a slightly queasy feeling. The box was finished, meticulously crafted, and the handover planned. But one thing remained unresolved: we had never filled it with real pralines before. Out in the garden, in glorious weather, the moment finally arrived. And sure enough: a detail we hadn’t precisely defined beforehand now became apparent. The arrangement wasn’t quite right; the handling wasn’t as seamless as I’d have liked.

That’s design: it thrives on precision. On things others don’t notice, but which are crucial. So we moved on to the next round. We revised it. Refined it. And found the solution. To do so, however, we needed a few homemade pralines from my wonderful source of inspiration – purely for testing purposes, of course.

What emerged was not simply a box. But an object with meaning. A wedding gift that tells a story – of family, of craftsmanship, of connection. And for me, too, it was more than just a commission.

When I think about it today, I’m moved by what has become of this idea. The guardian of this beautiful family tradition became a trusted confidante and companion. Today I found a box of her homemade pralines in my letterbox.