WW: Licorice fern

(Polypodium glycyrrhiza. Common fern of the North Pacific Coast, usually spotted as an epiphyte of broadleaf trees. When growing on a rock face, as here, you're looking at a site that gets above average rainfall. The common name reflects the use of its rhizomes as a "chaw" and tea mixing ingredient.)

Appearing also on My Corner of the World.

WW: American teapot

(When you housesit in the States, you sometimes have to exercise creativity.)

Appearing also on My Corner of the World.

Poem: Compensation

winter rain
time to unseal
the new tea

Issa








(Photo courtesy of Unsplash.com and a generous photographer.)

Hermitcraft: Quick Christmas Tea Hacks

Here are a three easy tricks to spruce up your workaday winter tea for the season:

• Oranges are an ancient part of the holidays, owing to the fact that until recently they were rare and costly in northern countries. To put some of that tradition in your pot, add about half a teaspoon of minced peel to the leaves, either with or without a chunk of cinnamon stick and one or two whole cloves.
  
  
• Peppermint candy, whether in cane or other form, is likewise a timeless Christmas treat. Just bust off about an inch of cane – or unwrap an individual candy – and drop in your cup. If serving guests, hang one of those soprano candy canes on the rim of the mug with its tail dissolving in the hot liquid.
  
  
• To upgrade a pot of ordinary black tea with heady spices, substitute a storebought herbal chai mix for half the black. (If the teas are bagged, cut the leaves out, steep them as-is, strain out while pouring, and put them back in the pot.) Not perhaps as sublime as the real thing, but a quicker route to a worthwhile end.

My very best wishes to readers and fellow travellers, and may this holiday season bring peace and warmth to all.


(Photo courtesy of Robert Gombos and Wikimedia Commons.)

Hermitcraft: Labrador Tea

Last week I was down to the tea bog I've frequented for 50 years, and while there, under dark wet skies, I snapped a few (not very good) photos of its eponymous resident.

Labrador tea (Ledum groenlandicum) is a piece of North Coast heritage tea drinkers should get to know. This knee- to waist-high evergreen, which resembles an azalea that sets sprays of showy white blossoms in summer, monopolises peat bogs across the north of the continent. Its leathery leaves are narrowly elliptical, dark green above and rolled at the edges. Yellow fur on the underside makes this plant a snap to identify, as does the powerful, lemony aroma it exudes when crushed. In fact, your nose is likely to be first to discover Ledum after you unwittingly step on some.

As both the common name and binomial suggest, European sorties to North America encountered L. groenlandicum early on, and while the Woodland nations were already infusing it for medicinal purposes, the newcomers apparently were first to drink it as a beverage. On the North Coast it's particularly associated with the fur trappers and voyageurs of the pre-settlement period, who carried the tea-drinking custom west.

Lab tea is definitely enjoyable for that, though for my money it's even better as an anchor for a mix. I especially appreciate the added tang and colour of rose hips. Grand fir (Abies grandis) needles or sorrel (Oxalis or Rumex ssp.) are also good, as are dried liquorice fern rhizome (Polypodium glycyrrhiza), catnip (Nepenta cataria), mint (Menthe ssp.) ginger, cinnamon, cloves, and orange or lemon peel. A blork of lemon juice is often welcome as well.

My own mix looks something like this:

2 cups Labrador tea leaves, chopped
1/2 cup dried chopped rose hips
1/4 cup dried mint leaves, pulverised
1/2 inch gingerroot, minced
a bit of dried orange or lemon peel
1 cinnamon stick, shredded
1 teaspoon ground cloves

For a single cup, infuse a teaspoon of this mix in boiling water, or a tablespoon for a pot; adjust quantities to taste. Serve steaming hot, with honey and lemon if desired. (I don't add honey to most teas, but appreciate it here.)

Though Lab tea may be gathered year-round, the bright new spring leaves produce the best tea. Look out for poisonous interlopers such as bog rosemary (Andromeda polifolia) and bog laurel (Kalmia polifolia), which grow in the same habitat and vaguely resemble it.

Pick the leaves into a cloth bag and hang indoors for a week or so, tossing from time to time to promote circulation. (Ledum leaves retain their colour, shape, and texture when dry, so may not appear especially "dry" even months later.)

In addition to a warming libation, infusions of Ledum are high in tannin and other antiseptics, and so handy for stanching and disinfecting wounds and sores, particularly of the mouth and throat.

But there's no doubt that a finely-tuned Labrador tea mix is simply a source of great well-being. Sitting by the fire on a blustery November day, sipping this pungent golden brew, it’s easy to see why it symbolised self-sufficiency and contentment to Old Settlers, as indeed it still does in many aboriginal communities.

“I laughed at the Great Depression!” the old Puget Sounders of my youth declared. “Lived like a king on Labrador tea and clams!”

Hermitcraft: Elderberry Tea

Here's a seasonal blessing worth knowing. The recipe is as simple as they come: you pour boiling water over elderberries, which set in profusion from late summer to mid-autumn, mash them a bit with a spoon, and let the whole steep for ten minutes. (Note that I'm talking about blue and black varieties here; raw red elderberries are toxic to about half the population, and in any case, are a late-spring harvest.)

Elderberries (Sambucus ssp.) have the fruity flavour one would expect, but also an astringent edge that makes them better suited to tea than juice. I tend to avoid adding honey to the finished product, but do like to include a pinch a-piece (not more) of ground cloves and cinnamon in the steep, and freshen it up with a drop of lemon juice (again, not more) before drinking.

The result, drunk hot, is the perfect companion for cool days of crisp sun or driving rain, having the exact taste of the first and the antidote to the second. Because they grow in dense clusters, elderberries are quickly gathered and once separated from their stems they freeze very well, simply twisted up in a plastic bag. That way you can continue to enjoy this tea all winter long.

And that's a good thing, because among other notable benefits, elderberries have proven anti-viral properties, having particularly distinguished themselves in scientific trials against the flu. They're also high in Vitamin C, another winter concern, though how much of this survives infusion is a good question.

Finally, varieties with a healthy yeast bloom, such as the one in the photo above, make a good sourdough starter, suitable especially for sweet applications such as coffee cake or pancakes.

So sock a sack of Sambucus into your freezer for the cold months. It brings a bit of August sun to your New Year's Day. (Or a bit of February sun to the Queen's Birthday, for my New Zealand readers.)

Lichen Love

This is Lobaria, either oregana or pulmonaria. (Probably the latter.) Common lichen of the North Coast, it completely sheaths some trees – especially apples, for some reason – like a ragged union suit.

I've been a big lichen fan since primary school, when my teacher took us on a walk in the forest beside our school and pointed out several. He explained that lichens are actually two organisms, living in collaboration: a fungal base with an algal or bacterial rider. Together they secure the wherewithal of life for each.

He also said that lichens possess the amazing ability to die in drought and spring to back to life when it rains. I'd seen this happen – the shrivelled grey fuzz on summer trees and rocks, suddenly ballooning three times larger, supple, and fluorescent green in autumn – but hadn't truly remarked it till then.

I promptly collected seven or eight types, dried them to crispy death on a plate in my bedroom, then sprinkled them with water.

Boom: miracle.

Now I can't not see it; neither their sudden absence in August, nor their full-spectrum blitzkrieg in October. In fact, it's among my favourite moments of the year.

Though acid rain endangers European Lobarias, they remain rife here. Some sources say our local species are useful in tea, but while sitting my 100 Days on the Mountain I tried it and ended up with a gen mai that smelled and tasted powerfully of rotten fish. From this I conclude that, like most edible lichens, they're best reserved for survival food.

And you'd have to really want to survive.

But what else would you expect from a class of organisms that includes fairy barf?

Yes. It's really called that.

UPDATE 8 JANUARY 2021: A friend and reader advises me that lichens have been found to comprise two, and as many as three, different fungi, not just one as previously thought. More information here.

Hermitcraft: Mint

Inexplicably growing in a field

A great blessing of summer is the bounty of wild mint that appears during this season in most parts of the world. Various Menthe species are native to virtually every place on earth, and owing to their pleasant fragrance and flavour, exotics too have been introduced alongside them. And because they grow exuberantly, they tend to take the highway.

And I do mean highway, since roadsides are the most common place to find them. Second are the banks of lakes, rivers, and streams. (In fact, roadside mints are usually growing in the ditch there.)

That said, I'm constantly amazed to find mint in the most unlikely places, such as open fields or forest clearings, for no evident reason. As a hiker, biker, and forager, I'm forever stumbling across it.

Because they cross-pollinate promiscuously, no two colonies of wild mint are alike. And that makes each discovery a new resource with its own nuanced taste; more useful for some things, less for others.

And so every clump is worth cataloguing and revisiting as need dictates.

I mostly use my mints in tea, either alone, as the entire teastock; as a mixing ingredient in herbal blends; an amendment for hot black or green tea; or – my personal favourite – an anchor ingredient for sunshine tea.

It's also delicious in fruit drinks, particularly lemonade. I have a vivid memory of painting a house one summer in my university years, where a riotous patch of tall, large-leaved peppermint had overtaken one of the flower beds. I'd show up early in the morning with a vacuum jug of well-iced lemonade, into which I would stuff a fistful of this mint, after first bruising it by rolling the bunch between my palms. Then I'd ditch the jug in a cool dark recess and paint away. By lunch time – a good three or four hours later – I had as much of the most delicious lemonade I've ever tasted as I could drink. It made working through the hottest part of an August afternoon almost pleasurable.

But even that wasn't as potent as it might have got. I've since seen Middle Eastern recipes that are basically a paste of pureed mint and ground ice, suspended in pungent, whole-lemon Arab lemonade. I haven't tried this yet, but it sounds brilliant.

The Arabs really know how to take the edge off a stiffling day.

Mint also makes interesting sauces, vinegars, wine and cordials, and jelly, and can be used as an accent in salads. Lebanese tabbouleh – a go-to dog-day dish for me – amounts to a blend of cold bulgur or couscous, tomatoes, onion, and mint, served chilled. Really fine barbecue fare.

For all of the above you're best off with fresh mint, but it also dries famously and isn't bad like that in hot drinks, though the flavour fades after six months. Mint-enhanced cocoa is particularly nice on winter days.

So keep your eye out for wild mints along the way as you go about your summer peregrinations. It's a timely asset.

Street Level Zen: Delusion

"First you get mad, then you go crazy, and when you combine the two, you've gone mad."

Eddie Joe Cotton


(Photograph courtesy of Najwa Marafie and Wikimedia Commons.)

WW: Pu'er tea

(A friend recently gave me this fine tea. To make it, the Chinese pack specially-fermented green leaves into a tangerine rind and let the whole dry hard. That gives the leaves a subtle orange flavour when brewed alone, or, for more direct tang, it can be brewed with bits of the dried rind. Interestingly, the dry product is said to get better with age.

Tea-wise it rates either a strong green or a light black, but either way it's good. As they often do, the Chinese infuse pu'er three times, with the second round considered best. In true Scottish fashion I steep it one good time, then add a drop of milk to the cup. And it stands up well, I must say.)

Hermitcraft: Tea Hacks

Tea is an integral part of Zen practice, and, for those of us with old-school British or Japanese roots, life. It can also become an attachment in the negative sense when you can't get any, or the stuff you've got is uninspiring. Over the years I've learned a few tricks to smooth out these bumps, and this week I'm sharing them in the hopes they'll do good for others.

Accidental treasure

I'll start with one I discovered by accident: if you seal a sachet of robust green tea, such as Dragonwell, in the same container with another of lapsang souchong, and leave them there for a while, the green acquires the other's smoky character, resulting in a brew that's good both hot and iced. Doesn't seem to damage the lapsang souchong, either.

Upgrading bad tea

Sometimes you have tea – black or green – but it's not very good. Though Not Very Good Tea can be depressing, you can amend it into Passable Tea (or even Enjoyable Tea) with other herbs.

The list of candidates is inexhaustible, but a few are so useful, and so common, that they deserve special mention.

Mint (Mentha) is common in most parts of the world, typically growing in drainage ditches and near any body of fresh water, to say nothing of residential areas where it's escaped cultivation. Throw in assertive, pleasant flavour, and mint may be the most useful tea-mixing herb there is. I especially prize the endless spectrum of flavours brought out by mint's promiscuous lifestyle. As varieties freely cross-pollinate, no two patches taste the same. Some are peppery, others icy, still others citrusy… the discoveries are endless. And of course, mint anchors a fine herbal mix all by itself if you have no real tea at all.

Several mint relatives are also handy. Catnip (Nepeta) is especially tasty, and frequently found feral. Lemon balm (Melissa), easily identified by its very mint-like appearance but strong Lemon Pledge odour, is too harsh to anchor a mix but welcome in restrained quantities in others. And bee balm (Monarda), a popular garden flower that was used as a tea substitute in colonial times, also mixes well with green or black tea.

Common non-mint tea stocks that

Bee balm (Monarda).

can enliven an uninspired cup include sweet white clover blossoms (Trifolium repens), lemony sheep sorrel (Rumex acetosella) or wood sorrel (Oxalis; see photo below), and orange peel or zest. Both of these last tend to be fairly bitter, especially whole peel, so proceed mindfully.

No tea at all

When you're flat out of Camellia sinensis, a few substitutes can put you back in the game.

Blackberry or raspberry (Rubus ssp) leaves, dried and crumbled, are a defensible green tea surrogate. I've found that the red winter leaves of our local native trailing blackberry (Rubus ursinus) work best, having a rosy flavour and less tannic bite, but I've had good luck with other species as well. Add amendments, and you have a worthwhile mix

Many people don't think of conifers when preparing food and drink, but at the risk of ripping off Euell Gibbons, many parts are useful.

Black spruce (Picea mariana) is a famous beverage stock, for its comparatively sweet bouquet. (Bearing in mind that all conifers taste like turpentine. They're an acquired taste, but once acquired, nothing else will do.)

The soft new pale-green tips of many others can also be tasty and nutritious. (Loads of Vitamin C, for starters.) Among my favourites are Douglas fir (Pseudotsuga) and Sitka spruce (P. sitchenensis). Hemlock (Tsuga) is another standby, but because it's fairly tannic, I prefer to mix it with weaker herbs to give them a real-tea edge, rather than use it as an anchor.

Roasted rice is another good stop-gap. Just spread a handful of brown rice in the bottom of a dry skillet and toss it over medium heat until the grains become dark brown and smoky. Some may even pop like popcorn.

The toasted grains can be infused as-is, but make a much better beverage if ground first. A mortar and pestle is adequate for this. Grind only as needed to preserve freshness and potency. Useful amendments include milk, baking spices (cinnamon, cloves, nutmeg…), toasted fucus, or orange peel. Some like a few grains of salt in it.

Civilisation in a cup

Tea-mixing is a huge topic, the possible ingredients literally endless. These are some the most easily- and universally-accessible, and all of them support my practice on a regular basis.

Here's hoping they enrich yours as well.

Wood sorrel (Oxalis).

(Top photo courtesy of Kristina Walter and Wikimedia Commons.)

Hermitcraft: Solitary Sesshin, Pt. 3: Food

(A sesshin schedule template is available in Part I. For general tips on sesshin planning, see Part II.)

For an activity that's all about putting sensual stimulus in context, sesshin is remarkably dependent on food. Right food equals good sesshin; the opposite can significantly compromise it.

I've had best luck when sesshin meals conform to three principles:

1. Simplicity.

When preparing dishes from scratch, this is holy writ; you just don't have time for feats of gastronomic splendour. But even with pre-cooked food, extravagance derails the mind of sesshin. Simple, straightforward meals work best.

On the other hand, spending a day looking deeply tends to lead you to taste deeply, too. You'll find that simple food becomes remarkably delicious during sesshin.

2. Diversity

But you do want a spectrum of flavours and textures. This supports the sesshin theme of discovery and gives freshly-honed senses something to chew on. (So to speak.) My favourite sesshin dishes (see "Lunch", below) fill this requirement nicely, as you can throw almost anything into them.

3. Mindful restraint

This means not eating more, or more often, than you need. In a culture that bombasts constantly about more! and choice! and luxury!, it can be easy to forget that true enjoyment comes from the opposite: mindful consumption of just-enough. So when you reach that point, stop. If it later turns out you didn't fuel up quite enough to stave off obstructive suffering, issue yourself a snack.

Better yet, if you consistently fall in a hole at a given point in the day, schedule tea meditation there next time. (This is were recordkeeping shows its stuff.) Sit comfortably in a chosen location and enjoy a good cup of tea while meditating for twenty minutes or so. This allows you to maintain the forms; gain a meditation period; and care for yourself and your practice – for a Zen grand slam.


Application of these principles looks like this:

First thing in the morning I make a pot of good green – traditional, simpler than black, compatible with meals – for use all day, reheating as necessary. Since it's astringent (makes you thirsty), I serve water at meals as well.

Breakfast is a bowl of grain; fresh fruit; tea; and water.

I like a hot main course, typically brown rice with a blork of soy sauce and a little black pepper. That's it; no butter, vegetables, or other amendments. Porridge or other hot cereal are also good.

Lunch (see photo above) can be any leftover on hand; if none, then Bassho bowl or noodles. The first is a bowlful of brown rice with a protein source (beans, nuts, cheese, seaweed, cooked egg, leftover meat) and a vegetable. The second is the same again, but with ramen instead of rice. Because the soup is less consistent, I toss in more vegetables. I also use half or less of the very salty flavour packet.

For a side dish I prepare a flavour plate, an ancient Zen tradition designed to provide a sensory work-out. Traditionally it contains five flavours: sweet, tart, salty, bitter, and savoury. (Apparently the Ancestors didn't do spicy.) I don't obsess over these categories; just lay out a variety of colours, flavours, and textures. (This is one place where a good shelf of pickles pays off.)

And of course, tea and water.

Dinner is the same as lunch, except with ramen if I had rice before or vice-versa, and fruit on the side instead of the flavour plate.

Formal tea is my last meal of the day, taken with a snack during study period.

I don't observe oryoki at-table; when eating on the ground, I use my outdoor oryoki. If you find oryoki useful at-table, or you prefer to eat on the cushion, monastery-style, work up a solitary ceremony that fills your needs. Make sure to document it in detail. Not only does that allow you to share it with others, you'll forget many of the forms between sesshins and need a refresher course yourself.

Final hint: don't overthink things. Your food doesn't have to be Japanese or vegan or "Zen" or whatever. Just enjoy it. Experience it in depth, both preparing and eating. Be aware of every step and condition that brings food to your bowl, and the debt that implies.

Done properly, the ritual of eating will join meditation and work to become the third pillar of sesshin.

Congratulations; you're working the feed to feed the work.

Hermitcraft: Fucus

Though delicious, Fucus (FYOO-kuss) has a marketing problem. The genus sounds like some kind of fungal disease; its common names – rockweed, bladderwrack – are hardly better. But once you've tasted it, nothing else will do.

Fucus is a distinctive, prolific seaweed, readily identified by the yellow-green "mittens" at the end of each frond. These endear it to children, who love to pop them. Incredibly tenacious, bladderwrack thrives in the harsh upper tidal zone, and is therefore accessible at all but the highest tides.

This remarkable alga, adapted to long, thirsty stretches high and dry, will keep for a week or more in the refrigerator. Used fresh, it lends nutrients and a suggestion of shrimp to sauces and soups. The flavour compliments tomato bases especially well.

Fucus also dries readily, dwindling to unrecognisable wiry black shreds that spring miraculously back to life after a brief soak. (It's also one of the rare marine algae that bear up in fresh water.)

Dried bladderwrack can be lightly toasted and crumbled on salads and baked potatoes, for mock-crustacean tang. Eaten as a snack chip, it goes surprisingly well with a crisp blond beer.

Fresh Fucus is a powerful source of Vitamin C, while protein accounts for up to 25 per cent of its dried weight. In the past, bladderwrack tea (see below) was taken for goiter, a painful swelling of the thyroid glands occasioned by iodine deficiency – yet another Fucus asset. Full-spectrum nutrition also made bladderwrack tea a traditional, if ironic, response to both starvation and obesity in Scottish fishing villages.

On the scientific front, modern studies have found that Fucus extracts reduce plasma cholesterol in rats, are an effective anticoagulant, and may even be useful in treating radiation poisoning.

The resilience of this vinyl-looking weed means that you can often gather heaps of it from the beach after a storm; if sufficiently fresh, all it needs is a vigorous wash and you've got pounds of delicious food. (On sand beaches it can be difficult to get the grit off those sticky clusters, but I just dry them on a clothesline and bag the result. What sand survives washing and drying collects in the bottom of the sack.)

But do check for barnacles and epiphytes before collecting a washed-up clump. In the open sea bladderwrack often plays host to a variety of other life forms, and is increasingly likely to be encrusted the further out you get from new spring growth.

In calmer waters, where Fucus blankets logs, pilings, and rocks, you can simply snip fronds from the growing plant, leaving the rest intact. Because it grows so densely you can gather quite a bit this way in little time, with minimal impact to the community.

So give Fucus a try on your next beach trip. Those who get past the name(s) soon come to appreciate its true beauty.

A few recipes:

o Bladderwrack Tea

(This "tea", which tastes more like a seafood stock, is savoury and satisfying.)

Steep 1 tablespoon of dried and toasted Fucus in a cup of boiling water, or four tablespoons in a pot, for about 10 minutes. Strain and drink.

Typical amendments include soy sauce, black pepper, lemon juice, hot sauce, and malt vinegar. My favourite: seafood cocktail sauce. (A smooth variety, without pickle chunks.)

The leftover leaves can be used in cooking.

o Bladderwrack Breakfast

Slice up some bacon or sausage and fry it soft. Pour off the fat that pours off.

Add minced garlic and chopped onion.

Add chopped fresh Fucus. (Make sure to slice the mittens in half, or they'll explode in your face.)

Throw in a diced tomato, or canned equivalent. In the absence of these, I use tomato juice or sauce.

Sauté till the bladderwrack is bright green and tender. (Bear in mind it'll always remain al dente.)

Grind in some black pepper and serve over rice, or as a side dish with eggs, hash browns, etc.

WW: Home

(Pot o' rice, fresh pat of hermit bread, a whistling tea kettle
-- why envy the immortal gods?)

WW: Official flower of summer

(Monarda [bee balm]; aside from being beautiful,
it also makes good tea.)

WW: Banoffee pie

(Because sometimes you just feel English.)

Christmas With the Devil

Last Christmas I shared my Perfect Chai, for the greater enlightenment of all sentient beings. But I left them hungry. So this year, I offer my Sourdough Devil's Food Cake. It's sourdough. It's cake. And it's devilishly unique. (Which is à propos, since as Spinal Tap have pointed out, Christmas is all about the Devil. What was it Christopher Guest said? "Merry Christmas – poke, poke!" Full video embedded after recipe.)

Anyway, without further, here 'tis:



Sourdough Devil's Food Cake

1 cup sourdough starter
1/2 cup flour
2 individual packages instant cocoa mix (preferably "dark"; quantity equals 1/3 cup. Or substitute 1/4 cup cocoa powder, 1 tablespoon dehydrated milk, and 1 tablespoon sugar)
1/4 cup sugar
1 egg
1/4 cup prepared mayonnaise (or separate one egg yolk into a 1/4 cup measure and fill the rest with oil.)
1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
1/2 teaspoon ground cloves
1/4 teaspoon grated orange zest
flour to stiffen
1 teaspoon CORRECTION: 1/2 teaspoon soda mixed into 1/4 cup flour

Liberally grease an 8-inch pan. (Cast iron serves sourdough best.)

Stir together all ingredients except soda mixture, and beat till smooth. Add flour (ending with the soda mixture) as necessary to make a stiff cake batter. Beat hard to release gluten. (Batter will take a dull sheen and become ropey.)

Scrape batter into the greased pan, cover, and allow to work at room temperature for 30 to 45 minutes.

Bake at 400 degrees for 15-20 minutes, or until a pick comes out clean. Serve hot.


Sourdough devil's food cake can be served as is, or with whipped cream, ice cream, or hard sauce. Cold pieces taste better if microwaved for 30 seconds; reheated in the oven in a damp paper sack; or on a rack in a covered skillet, over a tablespoon of water, at medium heat.

And it goes great with chai.

(The video here-below was taken from the 1992 reunion disc Return of Spinal Tap. Prepare to bang your head on some metal, or whatever people do to this music.)

Hermitcraft: Sunshine Tea

Scalding days here on the North Coast put me in mind of a great simple delicacy, the sublime sunshine tea. Nothing beats this stuff on a hot day. A shady place, a good book, and a tall glass tinkling on the apple box – there is no other enlightenment in this life.

Sunshine tea is so easy the procedure doesn't even qualify as a recipe, but like all simple things (tea foremost) the difference between good and great is in the attention. The basics are as follows:



o Fill a gallon jar with cold water

o Put in six to eight teabags. (Black tea.)

o Put the jar in full sun all day, shifting as necessary

o Squeeze out the tea bags and discard

o Refrigerate; serve over ice

Slow brewing gives this tea a lighter, less tannic flavour than boiling. For that reason, and the fact that it's served cold (and, ideally, herbed; see below), quality is less important than usual. Any respectable cutting pekoe will do; here in North America, Red Rose or Tetley are ample. (Lipton, to my certain knowledge, has no culinary uses, and those horrific "store brands" are fair-dinkum hazardous material. Keep out of the reach of children, and anything else you want to thrive.)

Water quality, however, is vital. If your tap water is heavily chlorinated, run it through a Brita pitcher first. If it's very hard, you may want to buy commercial spring water. (Which is actually just distilled or filtered municipal water in many cases; the whole industry's a giant scam.) Other tea-fancier strategies – rainwater, melted snow – are less effective this time of year, though when I lived in Québec I could count on a ten-minute late-afternoon deluge most days that gave me enough tea water to supply the town.

But the real difference between acceptable and fantastic sun tea is a large shock of some herb. Judging by how rarely I see any in others' jars, and the surprised delight of friends, this fact isn't yet common knowledge. So I'm blowing the lid off it: there is no comparison between unenhanced tea and that made with mint.

And mint is the best herb for the job: it has a clean, sweet tingle; grows like kudzu this time of year; and actually triggers the cooling receptors in your body. With enough of this in your mix you'll feel the frost all the way down, and even up in your eyeballs.

Spearmint, the pointed, green-stemmed stuff that tastes like chewing gum, is notably better than peppermint, the round-leaved, purple-stemmed sibling that grows wild here on the North Coast, but the latter is plenty good if it's what you've got. Pennyroyal, another wild mint that grows along lakeshores here, is also fine, and so is catnip, an almost-mint I've often found wild on the Gold Side and in Québec. Both have a lemon thing going on that is most welcome.

To use, cut a good big fistful, fold it up so it'll fit in your jar, and crush and roll it briefly in your hands to liberate the volatile oils. (The jar in the photo only has about a quarter of the mint [catnip here] I prefer.) Then stuff the sheaf in the jar, fill it with water, and put the teabags in last; otherwise it will be hard to fish them out. At day's end, after removing the bags, reach into the jar and manhandle the sheaf again in the tea a few good times. (You may have to remove a few glasses first, to make room for your hand.) Then refrigerate the jar with the mint still in.

I've also used other herbs: lemon slices; raspberry and blackberry leaves; the berries themselves (lightly bruised); rosemary; Melissa; Monarda; even grand fir. (I was going for a well-chilled retsina effect. Not bad, actually; c.f. lemoniness.) In my opinion none have bested the mints, but they’re worthy in their own right, and better than nothing.

A few notes for readers outside of North America:

You may be wondering, "What the hell is this guy talking about?" Yes, we drink iced tea here. The specifics vary from region to region – if you order it in Canada or the American South, be sure to specify unsweetened, or you may be served a paste of sugar – but it's generally an incredibly refreshing way to confront the dog days. Really. Trust me on this one. (North Americans can grasp the revulsion many outlanders feel at the idea by picturing themselves enjoying a nice bowl of iced soup. Another summer staple in many nations.)

Sunshine tea is in fact so popular on this continent that they sell special jars for it (see photo), basically an ordinary gallon jar with a spigot punched in the bottom, saving the user lifting the whole heavy thing to pour. But any glass or clear plastic jar will do. Plastic is actually the more effective, owing to superior heat transfer.

Also, as I implied above, North Americans are divided on the sugar issue. I prefer my iced tea utterly clean; this goes double if it's minted. Most here on the North Coast agree, or sweeten their tea very lightly, often with fruit juice. Other regions partake fully in the New World conviction that sugar is a vegetable, a spice, a vitamin, a source of fibre, and part of this complete breakfast. Listen, just make your own, eh? Disregard the contemptuous sneer of your neighbours when you set the pot out, and play around with post-production till you find a formula that works for you. Who knows? You might found an entire national sun tea sensibility of your own.

WW: Sesshin meal

(See this post for an exposition of the art of feeding a sesshin.)

Hermitcraft: Chai

It's Christmas, when thoughts naturally turn to chai. Well, they do if they're mine. Chai is not in fact a Christmas drink; it's the daily beverage of India, a nation that hardly has Christmas at all. (And the word itself simply means "tea". Like salsa [sauce] and baguette [stick], it's a humdrum, general term that English turned into a fancy, specific one.)

But chai is warm like Christmas, sweet like Christmas, and spicy like Christmas. It's the ultimate comfort food, and as good as it is all year, it's especially good now.

The trick to good chai is to mind the honey and not be Nordic with the spices. Hence the downfall of commercial efforts here in North America: too sweet, too bland.

Many years ago I set out to develop the perfect chai recipe. I spent months at it, pushing this, pulling that, until I arrived at the recipe below. I have since received favourable reviews from a wide variety of guests, from tea and chai connoisseurs to rank beginners. And from more than one Indian, a fact of which I am inordinately proud.

So in honour of the season, I share with all interested my most valuable possession. Wield it wisely.

PERFECT CHAI (or: Kensho in a Cup)

For one oversized mug or two teacups:

1 1/2 cups cold water
1/2 cup milk
2 teaspoons strong black loose tea, or two teabags of same*
1/2 teaspoon minced gingerroot
Two inches of cinnamon stick, shredded
2 cloves
1 teaspoon whole coriander seeds
2 cumin seeds (I mean it. Two seeds.)
2 peppercorns
1/2 teaspoon whole cardamom seeds
1 teaspoon anise seeds
a pinch of orange zest, if desired (adds bitterness if the tea leaves aren't strong enough, but go easy)
Enough honey to make drinking pleasant; typically about two teaspoons.

For a pot:

3 cups cold water
1 cup milk
4 teaspoons strong black loose tea, or four teabags of same*
1 teaspoon minced gingerroot
4 cloves
2 teaspoons whole coriander seeds
3 cumin seeds
1/2 teaspoon plus 1/4 teaspoon whole cardamom seeds
3 inches cinnamon stick, shredded
3 peppercorns
2 teaspoons anise seeds
orange zest, as above
About four teaspoons of honey.

*Any strong black tea will do. If using teabags, cut them open and dump the leaves in loose. (Always the best policy, even when brewing ordinary tea.)

Place all ingredients in a saucepan and warm gently. Mind that the chai doesn't boil; it shouldn't even bubble. Heat for a minimum of 20 minutes; 45 or better is optimum. (If you plan to steep the chai more than two hours, omit one peppercorn.) Strain into cups, returning the spices to the pot between rounds.

Chai can be made ahead and refrigerated, as long as it's reheated gently. It's also good chilled.

Chai arhats know that success in this powerful alchemy, regardless of recipe, relies on the Four Noble Truths:

1. All ingredients must be infused together. Do not add milk or honey at the table.
2. Chai is all about the spices; if you can taste the honey, it's over-sweet.
3. Boiling is fatal. It flattens the water, exhausts the spices, and burns the milk.
4. A good masala is equal parts quantity and variety. Cumin and peel counter sweetness, and should be just barely detectable. Cloves, pepper, cinnamon, cardamom, and coriander provide mouth and aroma and should be pronounced, without however overpowering the cup. And, crucially: the digestives (anise, ginger, milk, honey) make the whole thing possible. Without them you've got a harsh, even nauseating, stew. If your chai comes out coarse on the tongue or hard on the stomach, pump these up.

Chai goes wherever cocoa does. Take it carolling, or to football games, or serve it at parties. It's also a famous after-meal digestive. I have chai with breakfast most Sundays, steeped during the morning sit.

So from all of us here at Rusty Ring, many happy returns of the season, and best wishes for the new year.