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A Kitchen Witchery Tea That Tends to Stay

Glass jars of dried herbs including peppermint, lemon balm, chamomile, and goldenrod on a wooden kitchen shelf.

Tea is rarely planned. It happens somewhere between noticing and reaching-- when something feels slightly off, or simply... unfinished. Not enough to name. Just enough to steep. •–⁕–•–⁕–•–⁕–•–⁕–•–⁕–•–⁕–•–⁕–•–⁕–


There are jars that tend to gather. Leaves, mostly. Some are kept whole. Some are broken down over time, softened by handling, by air, by quiet use. Chamomile that feels like exhaling. Mint that sharpens the edges of a moment. Lemon Balm that settles things without asking. Others arrive differently. In small paper sachets, neatly portioned. In blends someone else has already decided upon. In forms that ask very little, and offer something all the same. They are all used. Just not always in the same way. •–⁕–•–⁕–•–⁕–•–⁕–•–⁕–•–⁕–•–⁕–•–⁕– The human prefers them loose. She says it gives her more say in what becomes of it. I've noticed she tends to mix things without measuring-- a little of one, more of another, depending on what the moment seems to call for. It rarely repeats itself exactly. I don't think it's meant to. •–⁕–•–⁕–•–⁕–•–⁕–•–⁕–•–⁕–•–⁕–•–⁕– There are tools, too. Small things that assist without insisting--


a reusable bag that holds what would otherwise drift,

a press that gathers everything down when patience is limited,

a cup that is always returned to, no matter how many others exist.


None of them are necessary.


And yet, they tend to remain.


•–⁕–•–⁕–•–⁕–•–⁕–•–⁕–•–⁕–•–⁕–•–⁕–


When it’s finished, what remains does not always stay inside.


Sometimes it’s returned to the ground, quietly, without much thought.


Other times, it finds its way elsewhere—

into something that continues, breaks down, becomes something new again.


Nothing seems wasted.


Only… shifted.


•–⁕–•–⁕–•–⁕–•–⁕–•–⁕–•–⁕–•–⁕–•–⁕–


Not every cup is for comfort.


Some are for clarity.

Some for settling.

Some for simply having something warm to hold.


Most are not named as anything at all.


Just tea.


•–⁕–•–⁕–•–⁕–•–⁕–•–⁕–•–⁕–•–⁕–•–⁕–


I don’t think it matters how it begins.


Bagged, loose, gathered, blended—


it all becomes the same thing, eventually.


A moment.


A pause.


Something held briefly, before continuing on.



--Entry recorded in Lilli's Magical Market Ledger




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