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’ll get your warmth from shaah.
In your hands, you hold the mug. The heated mug burns your hands in the same way the cold wind stings your face. You might end up sick, but this moment is worth it. You can physically feel both sides of who you are: warm and cold.
The process of making shaah 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. She taught you how under the guise of saving herself time, but really it was just for the sake of bonding.
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 shaah 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.
Overtime, I’ve grown to realise that in almost all cultures, tea is always a show of home. Of family. We make it during family gatherings or when someone makes an unannounced visit. Sometimes, late nights when you have nothing to do but just talk. It’s a comfort, more than a drink.
Because tea brings warmth, and warmth always represents 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’ll get your warmth from shaah.
In your hands, you hold the mug. The heated mug burns your hands in the same way the cold wind stings your face. You might end up sick, but this moment is worth it. You can physically feel both sides of who you are: warm and cold.
The process of making shaah 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. She taught you how under the guise of saving herself time, but really it was just for the sake of bonding.
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 shaah 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.
Overtime, I’ve grown to realise that in almost all cultures, tea is always a show of home. Of family. We make it during family gatherings or when someone makes an unannounced visit. Sometimes, late nights when you have nothing to do but just talk. It’s a comfort, more than a drink.
Because tea brings warmth, and warmth always represents home.
Shaah (somali tea) recipe
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Ingredients
5 cups of water 5 black tea bags 5 cardamom pods 5 whole cloves ½ cinnamon stick ¼ cup of sugar |
Directions
1. In a kettle, add 5 cups of water. Set it on the stove at high. 2. Crush your cardamom, cloves, and cinnamon stick. 3. Add it into the water, along with a ¼ cup of sugar and 5 tea bags. 4. Boil the tea just until it begins to bubble over. 5. Take off the stove. 6. Pour it into the cup using a strainer to catch any pieces of cardamom, clove, or cinnamon. 7. Add milk to taste. 8. Enjoy! 
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