It came to us from the grand Victorian house in which we spent all our childhood holidays. Where the red velvet wallpaper backed a fireplace and mantle on which tall glass vases housed the gnarled roots of ginseng, we would celebrate our Christmas dinners. In the weeks leading up to such a happy day, however, there were hints from this home in the form of food and gifts, including a mysterious tea mix to which you only needed to add hot water and then sip carefully.
It held the allure of the adult world, and so felt particular forbidden and tantalizing, yet for the most part we ignored it as the idea of tea veered far too close to coffee, and none of either interested us kids much. When we did deign to try it, our lips puckered from its tart and spicy potency, ultimately recoiling from what we eventually discovered was some exotic mix of Russian tea.
As I grew up, I developed a taste for it, though I could usually only manage half a cup at the most. Mainly it was the idea of it that I embraced, barreling toward adulthood and wanting to be part of that elusive world from which children were largely excluded. Still, it was too tart for my total adoration, too tangy for my under-developed palate.
My palate was just fine.
Now, with the secret revealed, and the recipe rediscovered, I indulge in it as an adult, wishing I could taste it again as a child, wishing we could have kept the mystery.
