Many of the intimate conversations with Pam, at the kitchen table, or curled on opposite ends of the couch, were over tea. I could always count on Pam to have something delicious, though I was not too fond of the numerous herbal and fruity varieties.
Brewing Green Tea in a Glass
Percolator After the Regular
Brown Teapot Has Broken
by Molly Tenenbaum
These leaves don't spin like black
tea in a dark tornado,
but swing light as dragonfly-wings
though you wouldn't want dragonfly-wings
in your tea, allowed amount
of rat-droppings in cornflakes—
but that transparency, that iridescence—
with their dark tiny veins.
To start a pot of floating greenery
says the right thing
about the day, I think, that no one knows
Read the poem in its entirety.
I'll leave you today with this parting shot.
When tea becomes ritual, it takes its place at the heart of our ability to see greatness in small things. Where is beauty to be found? In great things that, like everything else, are doomed to die, or in small things that aspire to nothing, yet know how to set a jewel of infinity in a single moment. ― Muriel Barbery, The Elegance of the HedgehogThank you for reading. I hope to see you here again tomorrow.