It started with a broken teapot. A mess, that teapot. I was rushing—I was always rushing lately—to get ready, ten minutes behind schedule and nowhere close to being ready to leave. The teapot in question was an old family heirloom, passed down from mother to daughter since at least my grandmother’s grandmother. Beyond sentimental value, there was nothing special about the pot: stonewear, a dull sort of greyish brown that was reputed to be local to the area my ancestors came from, with an ill-fitting lid, a chip on the spot that was so old it was almost the same color as the rest of the pot, and a tendency to make even the cheapest tea taste amazing. We always thought it was the love that made the tea so good. The ritual of tea drinking in our family — a tradition based in nothing more than prefered habits of isolated women in a place where the smallest comforts were cherished — meant time spent visiting with one another, sharing our lives, our days, our time, our stories.
Fall came quick and fast this year 🍂🍁🍂 📸 @jenniferanbui. Stay tuned for some new shots featuring yours truly with 🍫 hair ✌🏼