The Stories in My Tea

Tea has always been more than just a drink for me; it's a ritual, a comfort, and a keeper of stories. Each cup I brew holds fragments of the past, reflections the present, and a glimpse into a person I've become.

My relationship with tea began long before I could articulate what it truly meant to me. When I was a child, mornings in our household always began with the familiar clinking of tall glasses and the gentle hum of the kettle. My Mom would prepare hot, sweet tea for each of us, to accompany breakfast. The meal was simple yet satisfying: a bowl of meat soup with golden broth, rice, chunks of tender meat, bits of beef fat, and a slice of boiled egg; specifically bought for her children. My younger sibling hated the yolk and fat, so he'd push them toward me, and I gladly accepted the treasure. I can't quite recall what my parents ate during these mornings - I was too focus on eating as much and as quick as I could. But one thing I do remember; we all had a glass of hot, sweet tea.

When we moved to a new house as I started elementary school, life took on a new routine. The neighborhood didn’t have a vendor selling meat soup, so our breakfast changed to fried rice. Every morning, Mom made us fried rice. Sometimes it was rich and brown, fragrant with the umami of shrimp paste; other times, it was pale, seasoned simply with garlic and salt. Regardless of its appearance, Mom's fried rice was always delicious. Its constant companion? A glass of hot, sweet tea.

By the time I reached college, tea had taken on a different role in my life. It became my companion in the bustling chaos of lectures, assignments, and social gatherings. I'd stop by food stalls to buy a glass of tea - sometimes warm to soothe my nerves, sometimes iced to cool me down after a long day. Slowly, iced sweet tea became my favorite, especially after heavy activities or under the scorching sun.

Another tea I grew fond was the kind sold in glass bottles. A popular brand at the time - and still widely loved today - was Teh Botol. It was so popular, it became a cultural icon. At weddings, sometimes hosts would brew liters of tea in large pots, strain it, and pour it into cleaned, reused bottles; creating a budget-friendly version of Teh Botol. Everyone knew it wasn’t the real thing, but no one cared. The important thing that we were sipping Teh Botol and enjoying the moments.

Later, another contender entered the scene: Teh Kotak, tea packaged in cardboard cartons. It added a touch of modernity and sophistication to the tea-drinking culture. However, unlike Teh Botol, there was no way to make a “fake” version of Teh Kotak, as the disposable packaging wasn't reusable.

There were several other local brands that I knew back then. There’s Teh Naga, with its dragon logo and green background representing tea plantations, as well as brands like Teh Poci and Teh Tong Tji. They were inexpensive, almost powder-like in texture, with a reddish-brown hue and a vanilla-like aroma. The taste was distinctive. People said these teas were just leftovers—the better tea leaves weren’t sold locally but exported abroad. Whether that’s true or not, I didn't know, and honestly, I didn't care. All I know is that the taste was delightful, and it brought back memories of home. Sometimes, I even order these teas to be shipped to America, just to relive the flavors of my childhood.

Over time, I explored other types of tea, ranging from cheap to exotic and expensive varieties. Loose-leaf teas, powdered teas, and even teas made from dried roses and jasmine became part of my journey.

At first, I embraced these varieties to follow trends. But no matter how far I ventured, my preferences always circled back to the basics. Perhaps it’s a matter of age. People say that as we grow older, we stop seeking out new things and gravitate toward the comforts of the past, finding peace in familiarity. Or maybe, what I've truly been searching for is meaning. After so many life adventures, I’ve come to realize that in a cup of tea, I’m not just seeking flavors - I'm seeking stories about my own heart. Sophisticated, expensive teas don’t hold pieces of my heart. But a simple cup—just a spoonful of green tea powder steeped in hot water, sipped while I write—brings me a deep sense of comfort.

During the COVID-19 pandemic, when I couldn't go anywhere, I spent my time tending a small patch of land in front of my condominium. I grew potatoes, water spinach, two peanut plants, and two pots of roses and jasmine.

With all my attention, the roses and jasmine thrived, blooming regularly. Deep crimson roses and white, fragrant Arabian jasmine became my pride. I waited patiently for their petals to bloom fully. Before the blossoms fell to the ground, I’d harvest them, gathering enough to fill my palm. Then, I’d head to the kitchen, boil water, place the petals in a cup, and pour the hot water over them. This made a cup of floral tea for myself, with its pink-hued water and delicate floral scent bringing me back to memories of my birthplace in East Java—a land of misty mornings, sunlit rice paddies, and a timeless sense of mysticism.

After the pandemic, I tried store-bought dried rose tea for the convenience, but it wasn't the same as using fresh flowers. There was a brief fling with Turkish rose tea, sweetened with sugar and pomegranate powder, and tasted exactly like candy; but it didn't linger in my heart. I always returned to my favorite teas: unsweetened green tea or tea made from freshly picked rose and jasmine petals.

As I write this story, a cup of hot tea sits beside me. I stir it, inhale its aroma, and savor its familiar warmth. It feels like a small miracle. Life doesn’t always offer perfection, and we keep searching for it. But in the end, perfection turns out to be as simple as the cup of tea before us.