After the first frost, the mornings here begin to breathe white. The tea room window fogs first, then the valley.
We stop pouring water at a rolling boil and let it rest in the clay pot for a moment. The liquor is thinner, but clearer — like holding the whole morning in your mouth.
If you come in November, the list will likely hold this year’s white tea and a small jar of osmanthus. We keep only a little. When it is gone, the list changes.
