My Own Little Himalayas

I read a wonderful article about the Darjeeling tea plantations, high in the Himalayas, in this past Sunday's New York Times, and found myself leaning over the kitchen counter, hanging on every one of Matt Gross's words and imagining myself crossing the steep slopes like a mountain goat, with a bamboo basket across my back (I know, I know, I need to get out more).

And then I caught a glimpse outside my kitchen window of my two herb beds, filled edge to edge like a Tokyo subway car, the fragrant leaves of each plant rubbing unapologetically against the others. And I realized I had my own little Himalayas right at my fingertips.

I grabbed my cute little tea leaf press, or whatever this contraption is called, and head out to pick a local, seasonal conconction. Blackberry leaves, lemon balm and mint is my current favorite blend, with some local raw honey and a bit of time. Not thyme, the herb. Time, the precious resource that I hoard and hide so I can sit still and feel the warmth in my hands of that blue speckled mug I bought with my employee discount that winter I worked at Dean and DeLuca in New York City. And smell the distinct swirl of these three complimentary herbs as they comingle, while finishing reading the article that transformed my kitchen into Muscatel Valley, Goomtee's far-flung organic fields.

As Matt Gross wrote:

If Makaibari Island had been wild and Glenburn a fantasyland, then Muscatel Valley was positively prehistoric, with massive stone outcroppings amid lonely fields of tea bushes stretching into the Jurassic distance. Sunlit mist shrouded the far mountains, and all traces of civilization vanished. There was nothing but me and the tea.

I put the newspaper down and just sat. He was right. At this precise moment, in this precise place, there was nothing but me and the tea.

My Own Little Himalayas