I am the Chai Alchemist. When I was a little girl, the thing that made me most proud was to make the perfect cup of chai. I’d heat up the water in a steel pot and throw in the gritty chai grounds. The two boiled almost to the rim of the pot before I’d add the milk and spices, cardamom, clove, sometimes turmeric and a little bit of ginger too. Maybe black pepper.

It started out as something I was taught to do. Someone came over, we served them chai. Usually at least snacks too, if it was a more impromptu visit and definitely a whole meal with sides for the sides if it was planned. But at the very least, our guests couldn’t leave without having a cup of chai.

I knew that if someone was coming over, I’d have to get in that kitchen and start up the pot. Funny how of all the things I was made to do, this was one of the rare things I intrinsically loved to do. It was one of those rare times when everyone left me to my alchemy and when no other responsibility override the making of chai. The ceremony of it was honored.

I liked how everything else stopped. Because often, nothing stopped. Everything went by with lightning speed. The talking, the yelling, the organizing, the cleaning, everyone in the house shifting around, all the time. No one knew what it meant to be still, to revel in the peace that silence offered.

But when guests came, my parents were anchored in sitting with them. It was nice to see them do nothing else but have conversation. It kept them from worrying, fussing, rushing, running.

Making chai anchored us.

We all need it, anchoring. We need to pause, to sit in silence, to reflect, to hear our precious breath. We all need some form of making chai. We are all chai alchemists.