n southern Morocco, a family gathering takes place everyday at random. The aroma of green tea with mint fills the stratosphere and turns the sun and moon into distant voyeurs eager to drop in and enchant social moments. Moss amasses what it can from the spout of a Berrad "teapot" to steal the moment from the ritual of other masterpieces to succeed.
Eyes silent, and transfixed and absent, weigh in on how a master pours tea.
Brewing a noise as it pours, the color combination of a cup of tea with moss, white, bubbly, proud, and full of hot air, shows the small world that it can live up to its bursting expectations of magic.
Tea can win its bread everywhere, except when its pride and dignity falters. In small sips, lips and tongues indulge into an aromatic and ecstatic negotiation with eccentric flavors none other than tea in world of intriguing stories at the hands of a master tea maker.
Tea maestro is blessed with shouting of praise that cut into passionate discussions, as if to set the stage for recital encores where stories abound with topics and discussions about family affairs.
My favorites are cups of tea with as much moss as they gather, and as much flavor as they create, and as much soul as they express.
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