菊花茶 (Chrysanthemum Tea) by Jackie Xu

菊花茶 (Chrysanthemum Tea) 
To my grandparents, tea was a bridge. Yet to me, it was a wall. Staring at the muddy water in the porcelain cup, steam rose in ghostly tendrils. As it attempted to strip away my appetite, I pushed it aside, longing for the bright fizz of the Coke bottle. Every restaurant, every meal, the tea returned. Each time, more stubborn than ever before. 

“Why can’t we order Fanta or Coke like other families instead of this earthy tea?” I asked my mom one family dinner. 

“你以后就明白了。” she replied.
 
I sat back in my chair, sulking at the rest of the restaurant. I mean how could anyone like this confusing drink that does not seem to be liquid or solid? Every time you took a sip out of the cup, your mouth was either attacked by the boiling water or your mouth would fill with mysterious floating bits with names you would only know if you existed during the Qing Dynasty. 

The tea leaves floated aimlessly in my cup, unsettled and confused. 

Confused like my journey in Chongqing. For two days, my family perilously hiked up a snowy mountain three hours away from the city, a so-called “life-changing experience” at the top. I went through slips, tumbles, sweat and tears. When we finally reached our destination, I was greeted with three incense sticks and a golden statue. Watching everyone around me kneel down in the snow, bow their heads three times and lift the sticks up high. The smoke stung my eyes.I forced back a cough in the eerie silence and still I had no idea who I was praying to and why. 

Confused like the afternoons my grandma tried to teach me calligraphy. Pressing the brush into her palm, guiding it over the rice paper, her strokes were deliberate and smooth. For her, each flick of her wrist seemed to carry centuries of discipline and beauty. For me, it seemed just like black ink bleeding over the page, across the table and down my shirt until I came to my senses and it really was. No matter how hard and how focused I was, the characters only gave me a cold stare, so much like the tea leaves in the cup. 

Nonetheless, my grandma’s 67th rolled around the corner. Sitting at the table, her soft eyes filled with knowledge and wisdom, flattered as everyone glazed her for her masterpiece. We did not have the typical cake, pizza, sugar but instead, the table was crowded with shared plates of 拆魚豆腐羹, 饺子, 春卷, 糖醋排骨, and 炒饭. Dishes as familiar as family itself. The bowls, plates and chopsticks were set out perfectly around the table, with seats a bit too close but cosy. The kitchen was alive with activity as my grandma rushed from one end to the other, checking on the pots and pans that sang with flavour and aroma.

Just before I could finish appreciating each item crafted to perfection, out came our relentless nemesis, who had been locked away in the furthest corner of the cabinet all this time…chrysanthemum tea. But it was my grandma’s birthday so I took the risk. As the yellow tentacles of the flower reached for my throat, I fought to swallow them. I looked to my left. My little sister had her chopsticks in one fist, her spoon in the other. She attacked the flowers with all emotions, ripping apart the leaves, pushing them aside, only for them to casually float back. To my right though, my grandparents cupped the 盖碗 in their wrinkled hands, drawing the tea to their lips with ease. 

Years went by, and still, every family meal began not with food, but with the ritual of tea, the unfamiliar language I still could not speak. With time, something seemed to shift. The tea was never just bitterness. If I lingered long enough, there was a faint sweetness, a warmth that clung to the back of my throat. 

The moment came one evening, when I watched my grandpa’s hands steady the teapot. His fingers, worn and trembling, still poured with care. His reading glasses slowly fogged up as the steam wrapped around his face. Around the table, no one spoke. The silence was gentle, stitched together by steam rising from porcelain cups. I understood then: tea was less about the taste than about the presence, about the quiet thread binding us together. 

As we passed the cups around, instead of reacting with disgust, I held it with acceptance. I drank, not for the flavour, but for the belonging. Every sip I tasted continuity - my grandpa made, my parents refilled, and me, I learnt to serve. Serve not to exchange for 红包. 
Serve not to earn jade bracelets. 
But serve to connect and to respect. 

Yesterday my sister asked me why she could not just have Sprite. 

“你以后就明白了。” I replied. 

Glossary: 
你以后就明白了 - You will eventually understand. 
盖碗 - Gaiwan 
拆魚豆腐羹 - milky white fish and tofu soup 
饺子 - dumplings 
春卷 - spring rolls 
糖醋排骨 - sweet and sour pork ribs 
炒饭 - fried rice 
红包 - red envelope

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Jackie Xu
Y11 ENWN 2025​