by Mona Mohamed
By the end of the night, it's cold, but you keep the window open anyways. Sitting in your room, on the nightstand just next to your window. Your body searches for the harsh sting of the winter wind.
It’s a contrast to who you are, where your roots lie. Your mother jokes about not being built for Canadian winter, how she misses the sun, the warmth.
But you get your warmth from hot tea.
In your hands, you hold the mug. The heated mug stings your hands the way the wind does. You might be giving yourself a cold, but this moment is worth it. You can physically feel both sides of who you are: warm and cold.
The process of making shaah (somali tea) is something instilled in you; you’ve learnt the recipe so well, you add things and make up the amounts the same way your mother does. As it boils, you’ve adopted a tendency to play with the steam. Hover your hand above it, wave it through. You watch it almost boil over, just before you pull it off the stove. You watch it. Oftentimes, you make the tea just for the sake of making something.
You pour it through the sift, into the mug. Add just a little bit of milk. As you grow older, you begin to add less and less. It was a show of how you matured; similar to eating the crust of your sandwich, or tying your own shoes. As you grew and adjusted, so did your cup of tea.
You have an understanding that tea is always a show of home, of family. You make it during gatherings, and just the act of going into the kitchen to start making a pot of tea, means there are people with you.
Because tea brings warmth, and warmth will always represent a home.
It’s a contrast to who you are, where your roots lie. Your mother jokes about not being built for Canadian winter, how she misses the sun, the warmth.
But you get your warmth from hot tea.
In your hands, you hold the mug. The heated mug stings your hands the way the wind does. You might be giving yourself a cold, but this moment is worth it. You can physically feel both sides of who you are: warm and cold.
The process of making shaah (somali tea) is something instilled in you; you’ve learnt the recipe so well, you add things and make up the amounts the same way your mother does. As it boils, you’ve adopted a tendency to play with the steam. Hover your hand above it, wave it through. You watch it almost boil over, just before you pull it off the stove. You watch it. Oftentimes, you make the tea just for the sake of making something.
You pour it through the sift, into the mug. Add just a little bit of milk. As you grow older, you begin to add less and less. It was a show of how you matured; similar to eating the crust of your sandwich, or tying your own shoes. As you grew and adjusted, so did your cup of tea.
You have an understanding that tea is always a show of home, of family. You make it during gatherings, and just the act of going into the kitchen to start making a pot of tea, means there are people with you.
Because tea brings warmth, and warmth will always represent a home.