What’s the tea?

By Bailey Xu

F

irewood, rice, oil, salt, sauce, vinegar, and tea — the seven household necessities as defined by a Chinese proverb. In my family, the last item certainly holds true. Whether I am flipping through textbooks or scrolling through my phone, a cup of steaming tea is usually present, greeting me from across the breakfast table, in front of the TV, or even right next to my computer. Nothing soothes my nerves after a long day as much as a warm mug of tea. Despite all that can be said about my relationship with tea, it’s not hard to explain the root of my love — like most habits, it stems from family.

My mom is a tea enthusiast. She amasses leaves of every kind, storing and preparing them across an equally formidable collection of teaware, often highlighting her possessions the same ways other people discuss wine. I grew up watching her carefully unwrap hard discs of compact tea and, with a special knife, meticulously chip off tiny pieces such that each fragment is a perfect five grams. She then packages the weighted pieces into a tea filter bag, to which the steeping process finally begins. Enchanted by the ritualistic precision that my mom conducted herself with, I would always pester her to let me help. She was careful to never allow me near the sharp chipping blade, instead assigning me to weighing and packaging. The attention to detail my mom pays towards the differences between teas is unimaginable. It was from her that I learned which teas were caffeinated, which ones to avoid drinking before bed, which needed lower steeping temperatures, which first steeps should be kept or discarded... the list goes on. During my family’s weekend TV-watching sessions, my mom can typically be found sitting before her tea tray, boiling water, steeping tea. The gentle fragrance of tea wafts amidst the sounds of the TV, the crisp cracking of sunflower seeds, and the hissing of the kettle.

My grandpa is another cultivator of my love for tea. Whenever we visit him in Shenzhen, he always offers to brew us a cup, and we never refuse. Unlike my mom, who connoisseurs a variety of teas, my grandpa has always stood by one and one only: 大紅袍 (pinyin: da hong pao), a type of oolong tea. Compared to my mom, my grandpa has a heavier hand; his tea is stronger, darker, leaving your breath with a firm bitter tang. Despite the heaviness, I always down my cup just to see his face unfurl into a satisfied smile. In my family, drinking tea is a social affair. When we were younger, my siblings and I would crowd around his tea tray, fighting to take turns steeping the tea. We were mesmerized by how these unassuming leaves could impart such rich color and taste — it seemed like magic. Smiling, my grandpa would teach us his way of brewing. We were to rinse all teaware with hot water first to clean and warm the cups, then clustering them together in a ring before pouring, finally running the teapot in rapid circles over the cups to evenly distribute the tea. Later, while my cousins, siblings, and I played 鬥地主 (Dou Di Zhu, a card game literally translates to “Fight the Landlord”), we would sip cups of tea, moistening throats that had gone dry from arguing and laughing.

I still uphold my tea-drinking habits at Andover, albeit less often. My mom’s and grandpa’s elaborate tea-brewing process is a far cry from how I drink tea now when I’m alone, (which just consists more of throwing leaves in a cup and adding boiling water). Now, hunching over my computer in my dorm room, I hold my mug to my lips and take a small sip of green tea, singeing my tongue despite my caution. Steam envelops my face, its light aroma rising into the air, entwined with memories and warmth.