Learning to Spice

During my recent foray into baking bread, I discovered that the jar of rapid rise yeast I have sitting in the fridge dates back to times before J was born. How and why I carried it with me so many years, through so many moves is beyond me. The nice folks at Mefi and Reddit reported having baked successfully with yeast at least as old as mine. It was heart-warming to see I was not the only crazy around hanging on to herbs and spices over a decade old. 

There is an odd sense of comfort and continuity in these things - some of which have been gifts. Chamomile from Z the year I got the mother of all colds and was preparing for a big move, saffron from a dear childhood friend, the sprigs of lavender from D's yard before she sold her house and relocated. The more nostalgic the provenance of the spice, the more thrifty I am with its use.  I want to remember the good memories associated with them for a long time. 

I had saved some Darjeeling tea my parents got me from Kolkata for a good five years. It felt bitter-sweet to brew that last pot of tea - thinking about the passage of time, them growing older, my fading connection with home and family there.  That old tea-store was probably displaced by some modern retail chain. If I ever went back to visit there would be no Paresh Da to banter with and learn about this season's teas from the gardens he most favored. We would not be waiting in anticipation for his magic brew to be served in tiny cups for us to taste before he fine-tuned his blend for us. Everything had changed and would never be the same again. Reading the news of India lately is far from memories of such simpler times.