My matcha moment

It happened down at my farm, after a week of building things, repairing things, organizing things, cleaning things. Thing upon thing left me yearning for less.

I took up my reading of Marcel Proust’s À la Recherche du Temps Perdu (In Search of Time Gone By”) that I intend to finish in 2026. Soon after, I made myself a bowl of imperial matcha in a magnificent natural setting. I breathed it in and sipped it to the rhythm of the summer breeze. 

A taste, 

undefinable 

experienced in time, 

unretainable.

Such was my “matcha moment”: a peculiar co-mingling of Marcel Proust, meditation, and earth erotica.

As for Proust, he had his “madeleine” moment: a well-known two-page contemplation on the mystery of memory, triggered by a particular cake dipped in a cup of tea. Having read and re-read that passage, even committing it to memory, I am now moving on to the remaining 2400 pages of “A la recherche du temps perdu.” 

About matcha, Proust would certainly have something to say, but this is my day, and matcha is my muse.

Before I met matcha, I loved fine wine. I loved it for its endless complexity, its mysterious alchemy, and its harmonious pairing with foods. I still do love it, just not the toll its regular consumption takes on my body.  I began searching for some elixir that could take its place, and that is why I met matcha. Where before I had been enraptured by ruby red, I now was drawn into a deep jade green beneath the fresh spring green of delicate mousse. Most know the allure of wine, but let me tell you something about matcha and me.

Yes, it is a story of tea, and there is so much to be experienced in the realm of teas, but matcha–although tea— is not fabricated in the same way. Like the powder of snow, its life is limited. You must care for its conditions of conservation, and not let it go to waste, forgotten in your cupboard. 

You can’t just pour matcha out of a bottle. You can’t just add hot water as you would for tea. 

Matcha, you see, is both a substance and a conscious interaction with that substance. That may be said, of course, about everything around you, but matcha will make you aware. If you want to experience its delicate mousse and smell the fullness of its earthen essence, there is no other way than the path of conscious, meticulous gestures. 

You must respect the process. No metal utensils to avoid oxidation. Delicately deposit the perfect quantity of its precious powder into a properly proportioned porcelain or stoneware bowl. 

Add a small quantity of warm water to whisk up a savory paste. This paste will have the most intense aroma, so bury your nose into the bowl. Breathe and believe.

Then add a half-bowl quantity of 70-80°C water. With a bamboo whisker,  a marvelous tool that is both flexible and firm, whisk the liquid surface swiftly, not tensely.  

Finally, add your own presence and intent. If you are not present when the sun rises, perhaps it will rise anyway. If you are not present with your matcha, there is no matcha, because the ritual is as much a part of the thing than the thing itself.

As for the thing itself, you must choose a fine-grade matcha. No supermarket “organic” brand will do. It is assuredly not the same experience, and it is pointless to have low-grade experience. I recommend Musubi, because I have witnessed the care that goes into this product, from plant to package. 

What is the true taste of matcha? Only you can say. For me, it is an essence of what I love but that I cannot consume: the ferns of the forest, the dew at dawn on fields of dry grass, freshly-cut maplewood, mushrooms whose name you do not know, the wetness of the earth, the sweetness of her lips.

Ah, the sweetness of lips. You’ve told your beloved how sweet their lips are, but you do not really know how to describe the taste.  All you really know is how you feel. So it is also that the taste of matcha is as much imagined as it is real. 

It's the taste of time gone by, of time regained, and of the present fleeting moment. 

It’s the taste of all that exists, blended into a single beverage. Ultimate umami. 

Its texture is an experience, too.  Light, smooth, delicately creamy. Its mousse is soft and lacy as it touches the lips. Warm like an embrace from within. 

Find yourself some matcha and find yourself again.

May your matcha moments be many.