28 November 07
Wanting a Samovar
I’ve finished the first three volumes of the Pevear / Volokhonsky translation of War and Peace. Rarely do I read a book this slowly, so rarely do I have the chance to realize that it’s a luxury, a pleasure all the more rich for how drawn out it is. (The last book I read of comparable length was Vikram Seth’s A Suitable Boy, which I confess I gobbled in less than a week.)
The samovar: an artifact around which people gather(ed), sometimes in great numbers, and often at great length, to drink tea. Sounds like heaven to me. I’m curious about the different types; about the way the tea was infused with the aroma of burning coals (I always thought Russian gunpowder tea was smoked to fit the Russian taste, which it is, but there’s a reason for that—it probably evokes ancestral memories of huddling companionably, perhaps on a long train journey); about how the tea concentrate (which Wikipedia tells me is called zavarka), to which the hot samovar water is added, is made. This doesn’t really seem to be the place to find this all out, because I find no indication that they actually have any samovars that are working (there seem to be an ocean of tiny teapots instead) but I may drop in next time I’m in the Castro anyway, because anywhere that takes tea this seriously (as opposed to a very poor second cousin to coffee, the West Coast norm) is worth investigating.
Slowing down, savoring. Trying to learn how to do this.
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I was just talking about reading more slowly this morning with a colleague who is also a novelist and who is a very slow reader and reckons this is part of how he learned to write. I too tend to devour good novels very fast (I’m sure I didn’t take more than a week over A Suitable Boy either) and I’ll definitely try to slow down and savour the new translation of War and Peace, my copy of which is glinting at me from its box and being hoarded till the Christmas/New Year holiday.
I have wanted a samovar for years. I’m a diehard tea afficionado; I drink all kinds (black, green, herbal infusions, flavored black — you name it, I love it) and I love the sociability that seems to come with the samovar. Plus my maternal grandfather, of blessed memory, was Russian, so it feels like a connection with him though I never saw him own or use one. And the very word is satisfying to speak…
A good friend and colleague of mine has over one dozen samovars in her home in Sac, many of which she collected on her travels overseas. They are amazingly beautiful. I could arrange a visit if you wish!
We had a samovar in the house, ‘way back when we had an Iranian housemate. He liked to cook, too—when he was feeling low, he’d work it out in the kitchen—and had some friends who dealt in caviar.
Plus, if we gave him enough wine he’d recite poetry in Farsi.
Our family also had a samovar, which was always featured prominently on a table. It was brass and polished up well, but inside it was corroded and not usable. I have no idea how this Quaker family, from Philadelphia, acquired such a thing. My mother often had splendid flower arrangements in it! Alas, it has gone to samovar heaven and left my life, but your blog has me notalgic about the old days! Love your bird and zoo drawings!!!