Chai and Stories

I am still thinking about stories. Today I am thinking about small stories, the mundane stories we tell each other about the events of the day.

On the open shelf in my kitchen stands a dark wooden mortar and pestle from Mozambique. Simple, elegant grooves are carved into the sides of the mortar and the handle of the pestle. The ones in the handle of the pestle massage my hand as I grind spices. My daughter bought it on a trip she took with a group from church during high school. We use it to grind spices for homemade chai. On Saturdays we crush cardamom and toss it into water along with the tea we bought in Manipur, India. Aroma fills the house. We add milk. The chai watches for me to grow impatient, waits for my attention to wander, and the moment my back is turned, seizes the opportunity to climb out of the confines of the pot. It boils over, hissing and sputtering and burning onto the stovetop, every time. It is tradition.

I strain the chai, then we sit around the table sipping it. The perfect mug must do more than hold a steaming cup of comfort, it must frame the drink, the way a perfect picture frame enhances and sets off the artwork it holds. We each drink from a mug carefully chosen to bridge the gap between our current mood and the warm comfort of the chai. We tell stories of the week past and the week to come. 


Those quiet moments of connection are so important. Now that I am middle aged, able to both look back on a few decades, and look forward with the hope that I still have a few decades to spend on this planet, I am even more thankful for the tradition of sharing our stories with each other. I have heard that many families have given up sitting together and sharing the mundane stories of their days. I feel sorry for them.