I love matcha.
Nearly everything about it is immensely endearing: the sage-to-grass-green hue (depending on the concentration, of course) reflects my favorite color. I love how the frothy bubbles spiral in natural swirls. What I appreciate most is matcha culture.
I commend the placid complicity of creating the drink. It’s an art, really—one must achieve the perfect routine, an excellent discipline, in order to create the paramount taste and texture. The solution must be whisked in an intricate, controlled fashion. The wooden whisk, while much less high-tech than the automatic stirrer, allows for a cohesive consistency of matcha powder to water. It’s sincerely admirable.
But it isn’t perfect. Hence, “nearly” everything about it is endearing. The only problem I have with matcha is the taste—a particularly vital issue.
The “matcha girl” aesthetic is incredibly appealing to me. I already fulfill many of the criteria: I listen to Clairo and Laufey, thrift, and collect CDs. I am an avid Pinterest frequenter and an occasional Instagram poster. I want so badly to crowd my feed with sage green lattes and teas, but I can’t force my screen to reflect a nonexistent interest.
No matter how hard I try, I can’t bring myself to bring the grass-water to my lips without stimulating my gag reflex. Even the frothy texture of the delicacy doesn’t make up for its bitter taste.
I want so desperately to be performative, but my instincts won’t allow me.
I love how sage green goes with pink. The two colors are nearly opposite on the color wheel, nearly complementary. Green and pink reflect the acme of my childhood Wicked obsession, which was revived last November. Galinda’s famous words are (almost) correct—”Pink goes good with green.” My TCT-hardwired brain would beg to differ, along with Elphaba, because pink goes well with green. They remind me of the crux of early spring, when blooming flowers and leaves combine to create a green-and-pink paradise. They represent two girls taking a celebratory, adrenaline-induced walk around a café after receiving multiple positive notifications on their phones.
For now, I settle for finding my favorite color in other places. It’s the color of honeydew melon, my favorite fruit, and currently the color of my nails. It’s a similar shade to my eyes and half of my closet. It’s the color of the trees and shrubbery that lines the roads leading to my cottage; the color of spring turning to summer.
Matcha powder green, combined with baby powder pink, are the colors of a new friendship and a newer companion. They’re the colors of pink cheeks from time spent too long in the sun, and pinker cheeks from time spent too long staying up, smiling at my phone.
