Brewing Oolong in Wuyi Tara Tulshyan
Mama teach me how you pour cha on loaves of kaolinite , how it drools on the seared edges of bamboo , how it syrups down your lip , itching . Reserve a seat for me behind the mountain where white clouds abandon you . You describe the tea leaf as feeble , coated in soot that glazes your fingers when you first pick it up , bitter until you brew it in water . You add slices of citron and hibiscus to the boil , the only sweetener you could find . Mama you cannot name the color of the cha , it is the transparent lake in Xiamen that Angkong fled , the dust from the bicycle your baba rode , and the trail of pink hibiscus in your yard . The resin that thickens the water , are the ashes from the yellow note , brooding , boiling in the pot where the seats are empty .