I don’t feel like the pain of writing today. That, and to add further incoherence to the theme of this blog, decided me to take some photos of my tea stuff & attempt a photo essay.
Don’t be like me, peeps. One isn’t supposed to store one’s teas in the closet — too much humidity, moisture condensation — and the closet better not be in the kitchen — too much heat, too many aromas. Teas are Madonnas like that.
The tea wares that I hardly ever use. This obviously didn’t keep me from coveting them, drooling over them, and spending my retirement money buying them. Come see me in the poor house one day, won’t you?
It’s hard to stand out in a crowd, so here are individual shots of some of the pieces
Each member of the motley crew has its story, however uninteresting (like people, I suppose). The flashy orange tea canister, for instance, was actually manufactured as a sugar bowl. Made sometime in the 1970s in commie East Europe. It’s part of a set, so in buying it from somebody in Ukraine, I’ve separated it from its family of cups, saucers, and milk pitcher. In transplanting it here, I’ve also torn its from its country of origin, uprooted it, so to speak. It’s really a forced migrant to this new land where its purpose has been subverted. (Should I think of it as a “in my country, I was doctor. Here, I custodian” kind of story?) It has scars to show for its stormy life — a big chip on the side of the bowl that I’ve carefully faced away from the camera.