This article is part of a seven-chapter story following Lisa on their journey to start a Sea Salt Business. Inspired by the guide Starting a Sea Salt Business, the series blends practical steps with storytelling to show what starting a business really feels like.
From Name to Legal Entity: Sea Salt Business Setup
Lisa sat across from Tom at the bank, her folder of paperwork between them like a bridge she was about to burn. He’d pulled together information on every funding option, laying them out like cards in a very expensive game of poker.
“Small Business Administration loans,” he began, sliding a brochure forward. “Great rates, but the paperwork takes months. She pushed it aside. Opening was three weeks away.
“Angel investors?” He pulled up a website on his tablet. “There’s a group that meets monthly downtown. They love food businesses.”
“And they want how much equity?”
“Usually thirty to forty percent.”
Lisa thought about giving away forty percent of something she hadn’t even built yet. Like selling a house before laying the foundation. “Pass.”
“Friends and family round?” Tom suggested gently. “Many businesses start there.”
She’d considered it. Her parents would invest if asked. Maria too. But Lisa had seen what money did to relationships. Her uncle still didn’t speak to her father over a loan from fifteen years ago.
“I want to keep Thanksgiving dinner peaceful,” she said.
Tom nodded, understanding. “There’s also crowdfunding. Kickstarter, Indiegogo. Pre-sell subscriptions to fund launch.”
“How long does a typical campaign take?”
“Successful ones run thirty to sixty days of preparation, thirty days live.”
More time she didn’t have. Plus the platform fees, the reward fulfillment costs, the risk of public failure if the campaign flopped.
“Revenue-based financing is getting popular,” Tom continued. “Companies like Clearbanc will advance you money in exchange for a percentage of future revenue.”
“What percentage?”
“Usually six to twelve percent of revenue until they’re paid back plus their fee.”
Lisa did quick math. At twelve percent of revenue, she’d be giving away $2,000 monthly once she hit her targets. For how long? “What’s the typical payback period?”
“Eighteen to twenty-four months.”
Two years of giving away twelve percent of every dollar. The math hurt.
Tom leaned back. “Lisa, you have $47,000 in personal savings. That’s more than most people start with.”
“But is it enough?”
“With the line of credit as backup? If you’re careful, yes. Self-funding means you keep full control, no investors to answer to, no debt hanging over you except what you choose.”
She looked at her savings account balance on his screen. Eight years of living below her means. Skipping vacations. Driving a ten-year-old Honda. Watching her friends upgrade their lives while she saved for something she couldn’t quite name until now.
“The IRA withdrawal?” she asked.
“Already initiated. It should hit your account in seven to ten days. After the 10% early withdrawal penalty and estimated federal taxes, you’ll likely net around $14,000, though the exact amount depends on your tax bracket.”
Her retirement, liquidated at thirty. Future Lisa would either thank her or curse her.
“I’m self-funding,” she said, the words feeling final. “My savings, the IRA, and the credit line as emergency backup.”
Tom smiled. “Honestly? That’s what I’d recommend. You’re not building a tech company that needs millions. You’re starting a specialty food business. Your capital needs match your capital available.”
He pulled out the signature card for the business credit line. “Ten thousand, as discussed. Don’t use it unless you have to. The interest rate is reasonable but not free.”
Lisa signed, hoping she’d never need it.
What Do You Call a Dream?
That evening, Lisa spread her naming worksheets across her apartment floor. She’d been through dozens of options over the past months.
Meridian Salt Company—too corporate. Artisan Salt Collective—pretentious. Salt & Light—already taken, plus too religious. The Grain of Salt—cute but confusing. Pure Salt Co—boring. SeaSalt & Company—implied partners she didn’t have.
“The Salt Box” had stuck. Simple. Memorable. It evoked both the product and the subscription model. It sounded friendly, approachable. Like a place you’d want to visit.
She opened her laptop and went to the domain registrar. TheSaltBox.com was taken—a furniture company in Vermont. But SaltBoxGoods.com was available. So was ShopSaltBox.com.
She bought both, plus TheSaltBoxShop.com for good measure. Total cost: $45 for all three domains for a year. She’d figure out which to use as primary later.
Next came social media. @TheSaltBox was taken on Instagram by a personal account with three posts from 2018. But @SaltBoxGoods was available. She claimed it immediately, along with Facebook, Twitter, Pinterest, even TikTok though she had no idea what she’d do there.
The handles weren’t perfect matches, but close enough. Consistency mattered more than perfection.
She created a simple logo using Canva—just “The Salt Box” in clean typography with a small crystal icon. Nothing fancy. Patricia had warned her about spending thousands on branding before proving the business model.
“You can always rebrand later,” Patricia had said. “Coca-Cola’s first logo looked nothing like today’s.”
How Does Paper Make It Real?
The next morning, Lisa sat in Sandra’s law office, surrounded by certificates and legal books that made everything feel serious.
“LLC is the right choice,” Sandra confirmed, pulling up the state filing website. “Pass-through taxation like a sole proprietorship, but with liability protection. If someone slips in your store, they sue the business, not you personally.”
“What about S-Corp?” Lisa had read about tax advantages.
“Once you’re netting over $60,000 annually, we can elect S-Corp status. Saves on self-employment tax. But that’s a future conversation.”
Sandra walked her through the articles of organization. Business name: The Salt Box, LLC. Principal place of business: the Meridian Street address. Registered agent: Sandra’s firm, for a small annual fee.
“Duration of the LLC?” Sandra asked.
“What do you mean?”
“How long will the business exist? You can specify a date or select perpetual.”
Perpetual. The word felt heavy. Lisa was creating something meant to last forever, at least on paper.
“Perpetual,” she said.
Sandra typed efficiently. “Member-managed or manager-managed?”
“What’s the difference?”
“Member-managed means you, as the owner, run everything. Manager-managed means you could appoint someone else to run operations while you retain ownership.”
“Member-managed.” Lisa wanted control.
“Single-member LLC. That simplifies taxes—it’s all on your personal return with Schedule C.”
They filed online. The state fee was $125. Sandra’s fee for the filing and operating agreement was $400. Within minutes, Lisa received a confirmation email. The Salt Box, LLC existed.
“The EIN comes next,” Sandra said, navigating to the IRS website. “Employer Identification Number. Even without employees, you need it for business banking.”
The federal form was free, processed immediately. Lisa wrote down the number—her business’s social security number, essentially.
“Now the fun part,” Sandra said, pulling out more forms. “City business license. State sales tax permit. Food handler’s permit. You’ve already started these?”
Lisa nodded. The city license was pending inspection. The sales tax permit was approved—she could collect and remit the applicable state sales-tax rate on all retail sales. The food handler’s permit required a course she’d completed online last week.
“Any specialized permits?”
“Health department clearance for food retail. That inspection is scheduled for next week.”
Sandra made notes. “Trademark?”
“Should I?”
“The name search came back clear. For $275, you can file for state trademark protection. Federal is more complex, maybe wait on that.”
Lisa agreed. Another check written.
“Business insurance?” Sandra asked.
“Meeting with the broker tomorrow.”
“Good. Don’t open without it. One lawsuit could destroy everything.”
What Are You Really Risking?
The insurance broker’s office smelled like coffee and anxiety. Lisa sat across from Roger, who’d been recommended by three different business owners.
“General liability is non-negotiable,” Roger began. “Someone slips, claims food poisoning, says you gave bad advice—this covers it. One million per occurrence, two million aggregate. Annual premium: $1,800.”
Lisa wrote it down, her startup budget shrinking with each number.
“Product liability is separate. You’re selling food products. If someone has an allergic reaction, claims contamination, anything—you need protection. Another $2,400 annually.”
“For salt?” Lisa asked. “It’s just salt.”
“It may seem simple, but once you repackage it, the law treats you as a food manufacturer. That means full liability, the same as any other consumable product.”
The numbers kept coming. Property insurance for equipment and inventory: $800 annually. Business interruption insurance in case of forced closure: $600 annually.
“Cyber liability?” Roger asked. “You’re taking credit cards, storing customer data.”
“Is it required?”
“Not required, but recommended. Data breach costs for small businesses often range from $20,000 to over $100,000, depending on the incident.”
Another $500 annually.
“Workers comp?”
“No employees yet.”
“You’ll need it when you hire. Commercial auto?”
“I’m using my personal vehicle.”
“Your personal policy won’t cover business use. You need a rider at minimum.”
Another $300 annually.
The total came to just under $6,500 in insurance annually. Roughly $540 per month for protection against risks that might never happen.
“I know it seems like a lot,” Roger said, reading her face. “But one incident without coverage could cost hundreds of thousands. I’ve seen businesses destroyed by a single lawsuit.”
Lisa thought about her father’s auto shop, how a customer’s slip-and-fall claim had eaten most of his profits one year. He’d had insurance, barely adequate. Without it, he’d have lost everything.
“Bundle discount?” she asked.
“With all policies through one carrier, you save fifteen percent.”
She signed the applications, wrote the deposit check. Another $2,000 gone, but necessary. Like buying an expensive umbrella and hoping for drought.
Where Does the Money Live?
Tom had the business banking accounts ready when Lisa arrived that afternoon. Business checking, business savings, business credit card with a $5,000 limit.
“Keep everything separate,” he emphasized. “Never mix personal and business funds. It’s called ‘piercing the corporate veil’—if you commingle funds, you lose LLC protection.”
The accounts required a $500 minimum balance. The business credit card would help track expenses and build business credit history.
“Merchant services?” Tom asked. “For accepting credit cards?”
“Square for in-person, Stripe for online.”
“Consider a traditional merchant account once you’re processing over $10,000 monthly. Better rates.”
Lisa set up online banking, downloaded the mobile app. Her business had its own financial identity now, separate from Lisa the person.
Paul, her accountant, had recommended QuickBooks for bookkeeping. Another monthly subscription—$30—but necessary for tracking everything properly.
“Connect your bank feeds directly,” Paul had instructed. “Categorize every transaction. Keep receipts digitally. The IRS doesn’t mess around with businesses.”
She’d already started, entering every expense related to the business. The numbers were sobering. Before opening, she’d spent nearly $30,000.
Is Everything Protected?
Back in Sandra’s office that Friday, they reviewed intellectual property protection.
“The trademark filing is in process,” Sandra reported. “Six to eight weeks for state approval. Your logo is simple enough that copyright is automatic upon creation, but document when you made it.”
“What about recipes? If I develop proprietary salt blends?”
“Trade secret protection. Don’t publish formulas. Have anyone who learns them sign confidentiality agreements. Including employees, even family if they help.”
Sandra pulled up the domain registrations. “Good job buying variations. Consider getting the .org and .net versions too. Defensive registration.”
“More money.”
“Twenty dollars now or thousands later if someone cybersquats on them.”
Lisa bought them from her phone while sitting there.
“Social media handles secured?”
“All major platforms.”
“Google My Business?”
“Not yet.”
“Critical for local search. Claim it today.”
Sandra had a checklist three pages long. Business email using the domain, not Gmail. Professional photos for consistency across platforms. Consistent NAP—name, address, phone—across all directories.
“It seems overwhelming,” Sandra said, “but this foundation matters. You’re not just opening a store. You’re creating a brand, an entity that exists beyond you.”
The Night It All Becomes Real
That evening, Lisa sat at her kitchen table surrounded by paperwork. LLC certificate. EIN letter. Insurance policies. Bank statements with “The Salt Box, LLC” printed at the top. Domain confirmations. Trademark application receipt.
She’d spent the entire day making her business official. Not planning it, not dreaming about it, but actually creating its legal existence. The Salt Box was no longer just an idea. It was an entity with rights, responsibilities, and recognition under law.
Her phone buzzed. A text from Tony: “Website’s ready for final review. Your business email is live.”
She opened her laptop, typed in her new email address: lisa@saltboxgoods.com. Professional. Real. Hers.
The website loaded—simple but elegant. The subscription box sign-up prominent but not pushy. Product pages ready for inventory. About page telling her story, carefully edited to sound confident but approachable.
Another buzz. Email this time, to her new business address. “Welcome to Square. Your account is approved and ready to accept payments.”
Then another. “Your Business Insurance policies are bound and effective immediately.”
Each confirmation added weight to the reality. The Salt Box existed in law, in banking systems, in insurance files, on the internet. Tomorrow existed a business where today there’d been only plans.
Lisa pulled out her business plan, flipping to the funding section she’d updated that morning:
“Funding secured through personal investment of $47,000, representing eight years of savings and retired funds. No external investors. No revenue-sharing agreements. The Salt Box is 100% owned by its founder, who bears full risk and full reward.”
Full risk. The words sat heavy. If this failed, she’d have nothing. No savings, no retirement, no safety net beyond the ability to find another job.
But full reward too. Every dollar of profit would be hers. Every decision, every success, every customer who became a regular—all hers.
She opened a new document and typed:
“March 1, 2024 The Salt Box, LLC officially exists. Federal EIN: on file State Registration: 2024-000-898 Checking Account: ****4521 Insurance: Bound Domains: Secured Trademark: Pending Funding: Committed
I did this. It’s real now.”
She saved it in a folder called “Milestones,” the first entry in what she hoped would be a long record of achievements.
Outside, the Meridian District was Friday-night busy. In two weeks, she’d be part of that energy, her shop lights adding to the street’s glow. Real customers would walk through a real door to buy real products from a real business.
Her real business.
The Salt Box, LLC. Fully funded. Fully legal. Fully hers.
Three-Step Checklist:
- Secure funding before committing to leases—whether savings, loans, or investors, know exactly where every dollar comes from
- Register your business name across all platforms simultaneously—domain, social media, and legal filings on the same day if possible
- Get insurance before you need it—general liability, product liability, and property coverage are non-negotiable for food businesses
See the guide Lisa used: Starting a Sea Salt Business
You’ve just finished Chapter 5. In Chapter 6, Lisa focuses on the Final Setup and Team Players needed to get the Sea Salt Business ready for operation.