March 2006 Archives

Lately I have gotten into the habit of drinking tea. Persian tea, to be precise. And also of making it, of seeking out the implements and ingredients that will allow me to brew the ultimate cup of this tasty, coppery beverage.

For those also seeking adventure, here is what I’ve done so far. Let me just say that a well-done cup of tea not only tastes delicious, it also feels wonderful upon drinking it – something of a mildly euphoric lift combined with the same accelerating feel that coffee gives you, although without the jittery side-effects.

First, I blend three kinds of tea. They must all be loose-leaf tea, and you should be able to find all of these brands at a Middle Eastern grocery. I cannot tolerate tea-bag tea anymore (or what my Persian family calls taqallobi, or “cheater tea”). It tastes to me now a bit like the way dishwater looks.

The first kind of tea is purely for taste. For this I use Chaye Ahmad (Ceylon) in the green box. For two cups, I use 3/4 teaspoon of Ahmad.

The second kind of tea is for the wonderful scent of Bergamot, found in Earl Grey. For this I use Chaye Sadaf (Earl Grey), also found in a red box. For two cups, I use one teaspoon.

The third kind of tea is for color, that beautiful amber/burgundy that denotes a fine cup of bliss. For this I use Chaye Golabi, the “Barooti” variety. For two cups, I use 3/4 teaspoon of Golabi.

Beware! All three tea makers offer several variations, so pay attention to the labels. You could substitute Ahmad in the green tin for Sadaf in the red box, but don’t get Ahmad in the green tin alone. Ahmad is the best tea for taste, so my more experienced friends tell me.

Pour all of this loose-leaf tea into a dried quurii, or small teapot. Leave it there. Now put about a liter of pure water into a ketrii, or large teapot. I use an electronic water boiler for this, since it only takes about three minutes to boil the water.

Once the water is up to a rolling boil, pour in enough to fill the small teapot either halfway or all the way, depending on how many people there will be. Put a lid on the quurii and wait anywhere from five to ten minutes. Do not stir the tea or push it around. Just let nature does it’s work.

While the time is approaching, put the ketrii back on the flame and let it come to a rolling boil again. It can just keep boiling while the quurii steeps.

When the quurii is ready – and a glass quurii is helpful here, because you’re waiting for it to reach a deep amber color – pour some of the tea water into a glass. If you like your tea light, or “kam rang”, fill the glass 1/4 full. If you like dark tea, or “pro rang”, fill the glass half full. If you drink straight from the quurii, you are probably going to pucker like a blowfish.

Now top off your glass with the boiling water from the ketrii. This ensures that your tea is as hot as possible, without damaging the tea. That said, you never want to boil the water in your quurii. The ketrii is for water only, and boiling only. The quurii is only for steeping.

If you want to drink tea in the Persian style, put a sugar cube on your tongue and drink the tea past it. The cube not only cools the water slightly on contact, it gives you a variable sweetness between sips that I like. Otherwise, you could just stir your sugar in directly. Or drink it straight.

Properly done, the end result should have a pleasing color, a great aroma, and taste wonderful, with a mellowy smoothness that rides along your tongue. It should feel good in your stomach, and produce a feeling of lift and relaxation. It should make you want more, even though you’re already about to jump off the walls. This is good tea.

A friend and I have often questioned the pursuit of fame. One hopes to pursue a thing for its merit: if it satisfies the heart or has some value. But often there’s a nagging question behind our efforts: Will anyone remember what I do? It makes it very hard to live for the present, if our inner eye is so often distracted by the future. In a way, it tears us in two, makes even humility an avenue for ego (in the hopes that humble actions be remembered), and inevitably leaves us dissatisfied with our as yet unrecognized lives.

As I thought about it more today, it occurred to me that perhaps I’m being tricked by my perspective. After all, in some ways my adult life is as separate from childhood as life is from death: I cannot go back, I no longer walk those paths, and I live now in a world of completely different values and awareness. So I put the question: Does it trouble me that none but a few remember my childhood antics? Would I wish for more to have known them? Do I want to be known more for who I was then, than who I am with each passing day?

In fact, if everyone knew all the things I thought and did back then, it would certainly be more cause for shame than celebration. Yes, some things were cute, or innocent, but the merit of those is due to childhood itself, and not mine alone! On the whole, I’m glad to have a relatively clean slate at this age, and not to live my life under a feeble shadow.

Then how will I feel when this childhood is ended and I journey onward? If people remember me fondly, they are bound to exaggerate what I consider memorable, just as I hear people doing this constantly with respect to anyone they admire. And if they criticize me, will it really be on the points I care about? Is there anyway for posterity to accurately capture who I think I am, or will every enduring memory turn into a public creation, branded only by a name as if the locus of their own ideas – eventually becoming much more a myth than a reality?

If this is so – and my reflections on the great fame of others leans that way – how can fame in this life be anything more than an awkward mis-labeling in the next? No matter what people may have said about my childhood, would it really depict me as I am now? Or would it limit me to moving constantly against a current of expectations, striving to redefine myself against an overwhelming past. It might, in some cases, open doors, but those doors would be held open by benefactors expecting a ghost to walk through.

I have a feeling that perhaps I’ll look back with fondness on the actions mostly forgotten. Made the more precious because I did not fully notice them – things I did with such genuine intent, I never framed a consciousness around them. Or of the joy of an unfettered present, moving agilely with or against the current as I chose. For this I may need a degree of trust and respect from those around me, but not the world-encircling fame my friend and I always talked of.

We look at how the great ones are remembered and sometimes think: I want that. But perhaps we are hearing far more of the psyche of those speaking, than of their beloved object. Maybe fame is just a focal point; and a fairly awkward one at that, given sufficient distance.