tea drunk at a hojicha tasting

i start waxing dangerously philosophical. something magical about how clay softens water. rounds it out, makes it sweeter. glass bears witness; it simply reflects what is. clay transforms, tempers. together with tea, it transports. aroma becoming one with flavour, nose tasting before tongue. i find myself marveling at tea’s humanity: the way leaves need space to bloom into their best selves. and how these selves vary, from lush, velvety matcha to silky hojicha. some teas beg to be scalded; others thirst for water just south of boiling. and so we meet them as they are, demanding only that they give their best. to be this generous with ourselves.