Iron remembers fire. These mulling irons... one for the mug, one for the punch bowl, both forged by a blacksmith's hand... were made to be returned to it, again and again. Heat them in the coals. Watch them glow. Plunge them into your drink and let the darkness at the bottom of the vessel bloom upward... caramel and char, the ancient perfume of ale meeting ember. This is not a modern pleasure. It was never meant to be. It is something pulled from the deep of winter nights, from the long tradition of hands around fire, of drink made worthy of the cold outside. The iron cools. You heat it again. This is how it has always been done.