When I bought a pound of rose tea at New Man Kam last week, I felt foolish as I watched the gentleman fill my order from the giant glass jar of tea leaves.
One pound of tea didn't seem so very much when I said it. One pound of tea seemed so very much as he continued to scoop out tea from the jar and fill a plastic bag with the leaves. Well, I said to myself, there's nothing to be done. I won't ask him to stop; that wouldn't be quite right. Well, I thought, I will figure something out.
Can I say, dear reader, that last week as I watched the bag fill, I thought, oh, too much.
Now, now as I hold that gaiwan that is Mme de Pompadour pink, that feels just right in the hand, the porcelain hot, the steam and the scent and the taste all floral and pink, all oaky and dark; sometimes images of sun and shade and wild roses looping their canes out of the funk of dark loam flash and fade as I close my eyes to take that first sip, now, now I think: just right.