Tonight I got to see, to share, and to partake of, a traditional Japanese tea ceremony. Simple, beautiful, nuanced. The silk cloth to purify the utensils. The tiny pot of sugar crystals formed just so. The fluorescent mound of tea powder. The puffy bamboo brush-whisk and the froth of foam in the bowl, whirled just so.
The tea was bitter without being harsh, smooth on my tongue and soothing. I found myself a guest of my own guests, being served in the salon of the Lama House by visiting teachers for whom I have been cooking. They offered the tea as a thank-you for the meals we’ve been making, and even made special mention of the desserts, which I’ve been handling this weekend.
It seems surreal to me that the simple fact of a chocolate tart or a pumpkin pie, a drizzle of caramel or a mouthful of almond praline, can make any difference in the vastness of this world. And yet, when you find your American self sharing tea with a roomful of Japanese artists in the countryside in France, bonding through some blessed meeting of modern baked goods, ancient art forms, and timeless philosophy, you can’t help but consider that a well-made cookie might be worth more than you thought it was.