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I was about to make myself some tea when I realized I was unsure which pot to use. The black one would undoubtedly impart a solid, earthy flavor, and that could be just the thing before putting shoulder to the wheel. But then again the red pot would probably brew up a bright-tasting cup, good for keemun and for feeling ready to wage war on the projects of the day. On the other hand, the white pot might suit a delicate silver-tip or an unrolled leaf, a more refined and patrician taste suited to surveying the yet-undone tasks with regal detachment, waving imperiously in their general direction with the unoccupied, right hand, and declaring that they will be accomplished in due course.



















Where is Georges Dumézil? I am sure there will be enough for two.