Lush Life

Another beautiful, sweet cup of Bailin Gongfu while watching the sky lighten into dawn.

And listening to Joe Henderson. This is why I love mornings so.

The Obsession Runs Deeper Than I Thought

I found an old diary when I was visiting home last year- it's one I've paged through several times, because it's absolutely hilarious to see what an eight-year-old mind endured.

Among a lot of embarrassing entries which will never be revealed, I came across this little gem:

There it is, recorded for posterity in 1985: My favorite beverage is tea. It's also interesting to note my abhorrence of bananas, which persists to this day, and that I'd love to have a meal where I could eat all the food I wanted. Clearly, I wasn't about to be tricked by a children's book publisher into a monotone plate.

Mr. Melon remains a bit of mystery- I think it was a watermelon candy, which as evident from my favorite foods list, probably was shunned in favor of the real thing. And coffee, as we all know, is pretty gross.

It's no surprise, then, that I greet another morning with a cup of my old friend. I almost can't remember ever doing otherwise.

Thirteen Proprieties for Tea

"Third condition: Tranquil and elegant sitting area. When drinking tea in quiet and tasteful surroundings, a calm and quiet atmosphere, may you be at ease and unconcerned about the affairs of the world for a moment."

-Feng Ke Bing, Thirteen Proprieties for Tea from Annotations of Jie Tea (1642)

Honey Sweet

You'd think the worst thing about being sick is how is makes you feel (really horrible). But equally as bad is how it makes you sound (really boring). So enough of all that talk.

One of the brighter moments over the haze of the holidays was preparing one of my absolute favorite teas in the kitchen where I grew up. I suppose that's what defines a home: a place that no matter how long as has passed since you've been there, you still know where everything lays. And in this kitchen, each cup, even every counter surface has such a patina of memory on it that I'm surprised they're not more visible than a few faded stains.

Jia Long was certainly not something I ever tasted growing up, unfortunately, but it's such a richly scented, deeply sweet oolong that the first time you do, it instantly becomes a visceral memory. Even in the cold air of New England in December, the aroma- like warming honey- filled the room. Everyone in my family who walked by while I was making it stopped and said, "What is that?"

As we sipped together, I told them about visiting the teahouse and farm of Mr. Chen, the incredibly talented farmer who makes this tea in northern Taiwan. As evocative as it is to taste here, having it prepared by the producer himself was transcendent.

His tea farm was also stunning, the scent of the leaf mingling with other heady tropical aromas, of wild ginger flowers and neon pink dragonfruit growing like weeds out of cracks in a stone wall.

I'm still surprised I was able to leave.

Punishment Cookies

Pleasure and pain: you'd think being home sick for awhile wouldn't be so bad. But when it's pneumonia, and two weeks, you start wishing to be anyplace but in bed.

I can't verify the diagnosis because x-rays and tests are a bit out of my budget. However, this illness is an intense one, and brings with it a complete lack of appetite- for food and tea. Yes, it's that serious. So in order to claw my way back to health, I've been choking down ridiculously expensive oolongs and punitions, or punishment cookies, every few hours.

I read about these simple French sugar cookies in an article about Poilane bakery, in Paris. The focus of the piece was the baker, and the bread, but the mention of a small basket of these treats by the register- offered to every patron- haunted me for all of two days, until I found the recipe and made them my own.

Punishment Cookies
Makes: about 4 dozen

10 tablespoons unsalted butter (Kerrygold is my preference)
1/2 cup (125 g) sugar
1 egg, at room temperature
2 cups (280 g) all-purpose flour
1/2 teaspoon kosher salt

1. Put butter in a food processor and pulse, scraping down the sides of the bowl as needed, until smooth. Add sugar and process until thoroughly blended; add the egg and process until the mixture is smooth and satiny. Add flour and salt, then pulse several times until dough forms into clumps.

2. Gather dough into two balls; press into disks and wrap in plastic. Refrigerate overnight or at least a few hours. When ready to bake, heat oven to 350°. Roll out one disk at a time to about 1/4-inch thick. Using a round or flower-shaped cookie cutter, cut and place cookies on a parchment-lined baking sheet. Gather scraps and gently re-roll to cut more cookies. Repeat with remaining disk.

3. Bake for about 8-10 minutes, until cookies are set but still pale. Let cool on sheets for a few minutes, or transfer to a rack to cool completely.

Or watch this video of them being made by the original crazy Frenchman, by hand - truly, a work of baking art- and then feel lucky that things like cookies and clear lungs exist.

Pu-erhFore Art Thou

Today is the anniversary of the Boston Tea Party. I've blathered on about it in the past, so no need to get into all that now- there is more current tea news to report.

There it was, in a New Yorker issue from few weeks back, in black and white: an offhand reference to pu-erh. No addition of the words "tea" or even "drinking," and no further explanation. This is A Big Deal.

Yes, it was italicized, which all good copy editors know indicates a foreign word not in the dictionary or popular lexicon. But still, it was there, and quite casually at that. I almost shouted with delight as I read it walking up the subway stairs- but then an old man coming the other way let loose a gentle river of vomit right as he passed me, which evened things out a bit.

I was wearing boots, though, so it failed to dampen my spirits too much. And perhaps celebration of just the word in print is premature- it may yet take as long as it took me to appreciate pu-erh (well over 10 years), but people will slowly figure out how delicious it is. It's inevitable.
 

Oh Gyokuro

One of the my favorite things about my life in the past few years is that marathon tea-drinking sessions are a regular occurrence- and they are often preceded with a casual invitation along the lines of "Hey, want to come over and taste the first-prize-winning gyokuro from Kyushu? I have some killer sencha, too- I think it won third prize."

Let's just say it does make this whole aging thing seem more worthwhile. Sure, five years ago I could have sprinted across nine lanes of oncoming traffic without feeling like someone just shot a poison arrow into my right knee- but I was drinking tea alone, for the most part, and with much of what ends up here only playing out silently in my mind.

Now I often get to enjoy tea with people who are as equally obsessed with it, but the frequency doesn't lessen the impact.

It's like gyokuro itself: this is the tea that started it all (be bored by the long, maudlin tale here), but this is also the tea that stops me in my tracks. Still. This particular one was a single variety (saemidori) and the flavor was stunning, in the concentrated, endless burst of sweetness it offered. Combined with a rich, cream-like viscosity and utter lack of astringency, it absolutely blew me away. And it didn't dissipate throughout my palate or over time; it just sat there, quiet, still and strong as a pine tree growing next to a rock.

And while we're on the subject of time, something else occurred to me during the gyokuro session. My friend who was brewing it- and fastidiously shaking the last drops from the pot into our cups- remarked that I was so patient. I was sitting there practically holding my breath in anticipation of the first sip, but patient is a word (rightfully) rarely tossed my way.

My response was instant: "But this is so worth waiting for."

More on the sencha soon. I'm still recovering.