Winter Tea Blend


Not unlike a lot of people, I'd say my biggest influence in the kitchen is my Gran.  However, she's not the one who taught me to cook.  I could probably count on my fingers the number of times we cooked a meal together.  But my relationship with her nudges up against every aspect of my existence, no less so in the kitchen.  Her influence upon my cooking is unmistakable, just not quite so literal.

Unlike a lot of people, I don't search for resemblance in the faces of my loved ones, asking do we have the same eyes, does my smile turn to the left like hers?  Instead, I recognize my family by their hands. I've always found myself studying them - my dad's chubby mitts, my mom's long fingers, my aunt's tender touch with babies, the odd dexterity of my musical cousin, each so distinct.  I'm entranced in their presence, looking first at their hands, then my own, thinking about the curious turns of genetics. 

These days, as my fingers pluck winter berries from twigs, as I rearrange my pantry preserves, as I quietly chop food on the cutting board, I find myself contemplating hands, especially those of Gran.  I can only remember her hands as they were in old age, feathered by age spots, knuckles swollen with pain.  Even so, they weren't hands to pity.  Gran's strong grip was the first I sought out when I needed a jar opened.  Her hands were also conduits of the greatest love.  Crippling arthritis didn't stop her from wrapping them around my shoulders or feet, and bestowing comforting massages.

Our favorite form of communication was walking.  Gran and I walked endless miles together, in the cemetery that bordered her country home, in the mountains where I thrive, on vacations, after good meals, in whichever neighborhood we found ourselves.  When I was small, she'd hold my hand as we walked.  As she aged, she'd curl her hand around my elbow for balance.  Both burned marks of love so deeply into me that I can still feel her fire, even now, as I walk without her.

I was lucky enough to know my Gran both in my childhood, and as an adult.  As a kid, she was the perfect grandma, the type who baked birthday cakes, and listened to me like I mattered.  As an adult, it never slipped my mind that our time together was enchanted.  I got to know her as a person, to meet her eye to eye, to see how imperfections added to her character, to hear her schoolgirl giggle, to have a window into her dreams.  I've no doubt this is why she still holds such a spell over me.  I knew her well, I loved her completely.

There's a faded picture of the two of us sitting on a rock next to a roaring stream.  She's still young enough to have some color in her hair, I'm preschool precocious.  Most would look at that picture and see the happy time reflected in our faces, the ease and joy of being together, the sun shining upon us. What I see when I look at that picture is Gran's hand.  Despite the serene expression on her face, there is no mistaking the fact that she has a fierce grip on the back of my tiny shirt.

This morning, sitting in the tilted light of winter, gazing at the cup of hot tea nestled between my palms, thoughts of her hands swirl with the wisps of steam.  She haunts me this way.  My fingers are longer than hers, my nails are shaped differently.  I wonder, in time, will these hands come to resemble hers?  Is the bond I feel with my grandmother deeper than mere genetics?  When I shell beans, or strip leaves from a vine, does the fact that she is literally a part of me mean that somehow the sensation in those nerves is able to reach her, whatever that means? Even now, can those hands which offered me endless guidance and protection sense the world through me, feel my melancholy mood?  I don't have the answers.

How does a legacy pass from the hands of one generation to the next?

----------------------------------------------------------

Well, let's mull that over a cup of tea together, shall we?  Here's my favorite tea blend, at the moment.  It uses foraged nettle and elderberries for their tonic properties, and orange peel and cinnamon for their warming touch.  I like to brew this in a quart jar.  The first glass is tea, and by the last cup, it has become a nicely medicinal herbal infusion.  Both ends of the spectrum taste delicious.  The cinnamon emerges more with time.

Butter's Favorite Winter Tea Blend

handful of dried nettle leaves
8-10 dried elderberries
4 small pieces of dried orange peel
piece of cinnamon the size of the end of your finger

Place all of the herbs into a quart jar.  Cover with boiled water, let steep at least 10 minutes before serving.

If you'd like more ideas about which herbs to use in your own tea, have a look at Beks' post on herbal infusions.


I'm sharing this recipe with Real Food Wednesday, Pennywise Platter Thursday, and the Living Well Blog Hop.

Comments

  1. I had to have a side of this with my tea after reading your lovely post...

    http://youtu.be/5W-xtHYXE7A

    I tried to embed the video in this comment but alas, interwebz say no. Thanks for sharing this with us Buttah!

    ReplyDelete
  2. This is just so beautiful. It makes everyone who reads it think of their own grandmother.

    ReplyDelete
  3. Hands are how I figured out that I was not adopted. My mother has a genetic condition that results in double-jointed fingers and an incomplete split thumb nail. I have the same fingers and split thumb nail. Otherwise, it wasn't completely clear to me that we were related. Yes, the hands tell all.

    ReplyDelete
  4. A beautifully written post Butter.
    Enjoy your tea!
    Thank you for sharing.

    ReplyDelete
  5. This was so beautiful, Butter. Really truly. And I'm making your tea right now :).

    ReplyDelete
  6. I love this! What a wonderful blog you've created here. So happy to have stumbled upon it. I'll be back soon!

    ReplyDelete
  7. Wow Butter - you are truly gifted. I wish I had known either of my grandmothers - sadly they both died when I was an infant.
    What a beautiful tribute to someone who you loved so well.

    ReplyDelete

Post a Comment

Popular Posts