The Tai Chi of Chai Tea

What I'm drinking: I'm not actually drinking chai; it's a clonal Nepalese tea instead.

I just lied to you. I am technically drinking chai, but not in the "chai tea" sense. We'll get to that, I promise.

Many people the world over enjoy a cup of spiced tea. Masala chai, literally "spice tea" is commonly found throughout India, with street vendors known as chai wallahs shouting at the heels of passersby in order to sell their unique tea blends. Masala chai is generally a black tea laden with some combination of cardamom, coriander, cinnamon, peppercorns, and ginger,among many other spices. Traditionally, it is served with milk and sugar and is a great way to warm up on a cool day.

I admit that I'm not much of a "chai tea" kind of guy. I like my black tea straight up: no cream or sugar for me, thank you. I like to taste the leaf in its purest form. the essence of the climate and soil is imbued in every cup of tea, and the pleasure of tasting the difference in geology or elevation is something I really enjoy. However, every now and then, I like to mis things up. Trying new things keeps me from becoming bored, and any chance I get to experience something unique or culturally significant simply cannot be refused.

That's why I recently had my first cup of authentic masala chai at a local Indian restaurant. The weather was chilly, and since my food was spicy, I decided I needed a beverage that could hold its own beside the melange of flavor in my entrée.

My first cup of chai, photo courtesy of Megan Haytcher

Today's teacher isn't actually masala chai, so we'll trudge onward to the lesson in the cup. I promised to explain how I'm drinking chai, even though this cup is sans spice.

You see, "chai" is a word that merely means tea throughout much of Asia and in many European languages, too. When tea was spreading into a global phenomenon, the disparate dialects of Chinese left a great mark on what we call this delicious drink. Two main camps exist: the "cha" group and the "te" group. Two families of pronunciations influenced the tea trade in its infancy, resulting in some cultures who refer this infusion as cha, chai, tsa, sha, etc. or as tea, te, thea, thee, etc. Obviously, in English, we are in the second camp. The "tea" pronunciation derives from early contact with Hokkien dialect of Fujian, among others. When the English and dutch began exporting teas, they carried the cultural and linguistic seed for tea alongside the leaves of the shrub itself.

Many other parts of the world, including Slavic countries, Japan, Korea, Greece, and India, among many others, retained the Mandarin-inspired pronunciation.

One of the earliest lessons I learned from tea was one of redundancy. As a culture we tend to have so much stuff- information, possessions, activities. After a while it all clutters our minds and our lives. Tea by its very nature is a teacher of simplicity. With the onset of political correctness and a need for young, educated speakers to prove the worth of their diplomas, we have grown into a culture whose language lacks efficiency and brevity. It is a reflection of the excesses in other areas of our lifestyles. After a while, it all grows into a repetitious slur of words strung together or nonessential gadgets that we amass to impress one another and stave off boredom.

Tea is not the only victim of tautology. There are innumerable cases of place names, colloquialisms, and other expressions that say the same thing twice. Whether it is the cane toad, Bufo marinus, which is commonly referred to as the "bufo toad" (i.e. "toad toad") or the unfortunate attempt to overcompensate with "Mt. Fujiyama" (literally Mt. Fuji mountain), the evidence of overcomplexity is everywhere. Tea, as our teacher, beseeches us to simplify.

I guess it's just one of my pet peeves. I don't need to be referred to as "Nicholas Nicholas" any more than my drink needs to be "tea tea." Specificity is appreciated in life, but sometimes we aren't as specific as we think we are. The universe always gives us what we ask for, so the next time you consider placing your order for your next manifestation, consider a cup of chai. Do you want any old tea, or a spiced tea? Do you need any job, lover, or project, or do you need the right one?

My tea today is as simple as they come. It's rather grassy for a black tea, but it is very brisk and aromatic. I don't need to worry about what it is called in order to enjoy it, and that is one of the key lessons here. As one of my favorite books on tea, The Spirit of Tea, reminds us:

"Everything you need to know is in the cup."

So yes, I'm drinking chai. I'm also drinking thee, teh, chaj, and herbata. Let's all sit back with our favorite cups and relish the sweet and savory liquor steaming within, with or without spice. For all the innovations the world has to offer, the simplicity of a cup of tea reminds us not to be too cerebral, lest we disconnect ourselves from experiencing the moment. We might even sound silly while doing it.

Alchemy in the Cup

What's in my cup: Houjicha, a roasted green tea from Japan

There is nothing especially sophisticated about houjicha. Maybe that is what I really like about it. Every cup is comforting, gentle on the palate, and easy to brew. Unlike other Japanese green teas, this one isn't particularly finicky when it comes to temperature or time. Houjicha is also a relatively young tea- it has been around for less than a century.

In the 1920s, a tea merchant in Kyoto, Japan was left with a surplus of late-flush bancha. This is a common tea produced from the last of the pick-able leaves on the Camellia plants in the autumn and winter. Bancha is a less-refined tea than earlier harvests of sencha, but, rather than let his product spoil, the innovative tea merchant decided to try roasting it in a ceramic vessel over high heat. The application of heat, and ingenuity, to the tea leaves gave the tea drinkers of early twentieth century Kyoto a new beverage.

This particular variety of green tea is not especially vegetal or astringent. It's mellow and earthy notes harmonize for a velvety serenade, one that is perfect at day's end. The roasting eliminates nearly all of the caffeine present in the tea leaves, and so I was able to enjoy more of this low-caffeine and low-tannin beverage after my kidney concerns. I really love the feeling of warmth spreading through my body that matches the warm and smooth taste on my palate with each sip of houjicha.

The secret to this tea is in it's simplicity; it is an entirely uncomplicated tea to master. With each successive sip, I found myself thinking about how easy it is to get caught up in the ceremony and and ritual of everything. Nothing about this tea holds onto false pretense. It has humble origins and undergoes a drastic transformation by a simple process, and that is what holds the key to everything we can learn from this tea.

Bancha, the base for this beverage, is often overlooked by tea connoisseurs. It is the least favorite child in the sencha family of leaves, consumed daily because of its price and availability rather than its complex aroma or sophisticated flavor. Despite this, houjicha is widely enjoyed as a delightful cup of tea with more notoriety than just any other late-harvest green. This tea began as a surplus. It wasn't particularly in demand, and would simply have gone to waste if not for some fast-thinking merchant in Kyoto. Perhaps he was inspired by the way that the Chinese pan-fire their green teas or by Taiwanese roasted oolongs. Perhaps the kami, or spirit, of the leaves themselves gave him the idea.

However it came to pass, houjicha went from one level to another. It underwent a process of transformation from a base substance to an infusion that leans a dark amber to golden brown. This is a tea of alchemy. We have a lot to learn from these leaves. Hundreds of medieval texts on magic and alchemy obscure the details of what it really was intended to be. Most of us today believe alchemists sought only the philosopher's stone in order to produce the elixir of life, a potion believed to endow one with immortality, and to transform base metals into gold. What we have yet to learn is that the complicated rituals and laboratory instructions are seldom intended to be taken literally.

Alchemy is a process of transforming the self. We take all of our dull, leaden bits and allow them to become shiny and golden. Attaining immortality has less to do with living forever than it does realizing that part of us that is undying and eternal. Real alchemy is an internal process of spiritual awakening whereby the alchemist becomes aware of the connection of all life and the simplicity of the spiritual truth that we are all one.

Our teacher for today, houjicha, undergoes a simple process involving a mere application of heat in order to become a new tea. It transforms from practically a waste product as a surplus harvest into a tea that will be forever endeared to the hearts of tea lovers around the globe. That sounds a lot like immortality to me.

Let's learn what we can from this tea. Houjicha preaches simplicity with each sip. It's difficult to spoil a pot of it because it is remarkably easy to infuse. Perhaps by uncluttering our minds and seeking simple pleasures, we can begin the process of transformation and open ourselves to what we are truly called to do in life. By allowing ourselves to be transmuted into the spiritual analog of gold, we can also touch those around us and live on forever in their hearts and minds.

Too much of a good thing

What's in my cup: Water

I'm sure that this was bound to happen eventually, given my predisposition towards indulgence, but kidney stones are never really welcome. I was hoping to have a normal, easy going week. Instead I have grains of crystalline ouch stabbing my insides and distracting me each and every waking moment. It adds up to a lot of waking moments, seeing as the pain was initially enough to keep me from sleeping well.

I am sure many of you are incredulous, wondering how someone who consumes as many antioxidants as I do get sick... Right?

Or maybe you can see the answer.

The thing is... I might have a problem. I drink a lot of tea.

A lot.

And there happens to be a good amount of tannin in the leaves I enjoy the most. After a while it kind of adds up. If you couple that with the fact that my palate isn't too fond of the water here since I moved in August, it does not make for a good combination. I always used to drink a lot of water. Now, whenever I get thirsty, I have put myself into the habit of reaching for kettle. As busy as work has been I haven't even been keeping hydrated there, either.

Let's be honest; I have a tendency towards indulgence. I have replaced wine with tea. I have replaced sweets with tea. I replaced playing the horn with tea, so as not to upset my neighbors. I have even replaced men with tea. Well, I tried to, at any rate.

Just when I began to stress myself out about life, it was as if everything crystallized into one painful process this past Monday. My ability to filter out the destructive thoughts failed just as badly as my kidneys at handling the saturation of calcium oxalate. Eventually, it precipitated into the shards of jagged and insoluble irritants that sluggishly thorned their way through my system. I spent each moment sitting in pain until it passed. Each and every breath pulled my diaphragm downward against the offending kidney, sending rivulets of pain shooting though my side. Every step was comically agonizing. I was forced to take time to rest and laugh at the irony of the situation, even if every chuckle drove daggers into my side.

Thankfully, that necessity for restfulness was met with support from my boss and my loved ones. I hate sitting around and doing nothing all day. I always have a million and three projects going at the same time so I can flit from one to the next without boredom setting in. Monday's highlight was napping. Tuesday and Wednesday I wrote and spent a fair amount of time on the phone. All the while, I couldn't do much to satisfy my craving for tea. I drank some peppermint, and some weakly re-steeped leaves leftover from my room mate's mug, too, but it is never the same as going through the ritual of making tea for myself. Instead I did my best to feel sated on water alone.

My system cleared itself sometime yesterday. I am continuing to flood my body with a deluge of fresh water to instill the habit. The best part of it all, aside from no longer being subjected to excruciating pain worse than a monotone professor on a day when you really need a nap, is the sense of relief accompanied by a greater awareness of what is happening in the here and now. When every deep breath is linked to a spasm of pain, you really start to pay attention to things outside of yourself that are happening in the now. Learning to write through that was a great experience.

I think I have learned my lesson in moderation. My father, who has had the same problem several times over, proposed that I add a few other indulgences back to my life. A little does go a long way. The new goal is cut my tea drinking back by fifty percent. That will help me appreciate the tea that I do drink even more. I won't just be waiting for my fix anymore. I've also already promised myself that it's time to invest in a water filter. I am pretending that it's just for encouraging me to drink more water, but I'm sure you've already realized that I'm excited at how much better my tea will taste, too. The effects of this lesson arc across my entire life; I will be so much better for it. Not only will my kidneys thank me, but I will break my dependence on an outside source for happiness.

True contentment comes from within, and Camellia sinensis, as one of my spiritual teachers, would want me cultivate that on my own.