Teapot

The Moroccan teapot, or rather, Mr. Berrad, as I remember it, would sit in the kitchen or the living room, made of aluminum or sometimes silver-plated metal, always standing beside small decorated glass cups with colorful patterns or golden reflections. Together, they formed something more: an invitation, a silent way of saying, “you are welcome.” In my home, mint tea wasn’t just a drink. It was a ritual, almost sacred. It took so little: the aroma would begin to spread, and the atmosphere of the house would change, becoming warmer and fuller. And then there was that unmistakable sound of tea being poured from a height, cascading into the glasses… I can still hear it, as if it were marking time without haste, from morning to night, without the need for a schedule.

I remember clearly that there were two sets: one for everyday use and one reserved only for guests. The “important” set was always ready, placed on a small side table in the living room, covered with a beige cloth embroidered by my grandmother. We were not even allowed to go near it. And like clockwork, if my sister and I got too close while playing, my mother’s voice would ring out to scold us.

But the most vivid memory I have is linked to slowness. Making mint tea meant stopping, taking one’s time, and savoring the moment without rushing. The teapot and the glasses became witnesses to everything: conversations, laughter, and shared silences.