Bøger af Robert Shveytser

The small kerosene stove stood on the floor, with two kettles warming over its gentle blue flame. One was a large one with hot water with a smaller one on top of it, containing the aromatic tea extract. We all sat on the carpeted floor around the stove, with our legs folded under. Our mother picked up the small kettle with one hand and the large with the other. She poured the two liquids into glasses set out on the floor. The clear water diluted the dark brewed tea, and steam wafted up from our glasses. My brother Naftali took the hot glass closest to him, his expression hidden behind it as he raised the glass to take a sip.