Star Anise in the Winter Cup
Every winter my grandmother's sister arrived with a small cloth bag of star anise. She said the town shop's stock was stale and placed her own jar beside my grandmother's on the kitchen shelf.
The aunt with the spice bag
Every winter my grandmother's sister came from the country for two weeks. Her luggage was small, but she always carried a cloth bag of star anise. She said the shop in town sold old stock — "the smell doesn't hit you." My grandmother let her say it, smiling, and set her jar of pods beside her own on the kitchen shelf.
Ginger root sat in a wide ceramic bowl nearby, but the star anise lived in glass. The two sisters had different ideas about what a winter cup should do. One warmed the body, the other warmed the hands.
One pod in a cup
After dinner my grandmother's sister asked for a cup of hot water — she did not drink tea, she said it kept her awake. She dropped a single star anise pod into the cup, and the water slowly turned yellow. A smell like licorice and fennel rose from the rim. She did not explain, only said "I'm used to it. I drink it this way at home."
My grandmother, on the other side of the table, was drinking ginger and red date tea. The two sisters sat with one cup each — one spicy, one sweet. The steam from the two cups crossed above the tablecloth without mixing.
Two sisters, two jars
When my grandmother's sister left that year, she did not take the jar. "Leave it for you," she said. My grandmother tipped the pods onto the cutting board to look at them — each one intact, no broken points, the seeds still sitting in their small windows. She said nothing. She put them back.
The next winter her sister did not come — her legs were bad and she could not manage the long bus ride. My grandmother took the jar down from the cabinet and set it beside the cutting board. After dinner she dropped a single pod into her own cup of hot water and sat with it, not drinking, until it cooled.