His name is Li Lao Shi — Teacher Li. He is in his seventies now. He is an acupuncturist, a fortune teller, and a feng shui master, all packed into one compact human being who eats people like you and me for breakfast. He is one of the reasons I do what I do. And one of my longest-standing dreams is to get him on a plane and bring him here to Eugene.

I first came to know him through tea.

Some of the earliest great teas I ever had came to me because someone had given them to Li Lao Shi, and he was generous enough to share. I remember sitting with those teas and feeling something shift. Not dramatically. Just — man, that was really good. I want more of that. I want to find my way back to that place. But I had no idea where to look. I'd wander into shops on the street, and nothing felt trustworthy. I was left hanging, chasing something I couldn't name.

Li Lao Shi was the one who forced me to follow my senses into the depths of tea. That chase became my life's work.

He has one real skill: he knows where to put the needle.

If he doesn't know you yet, expect around sixty. Once he decides you're serious — once he knows you respect what he can do — that number climbs to one-twenty. He doesn't hold back. But he doesn't leave them in long either. Only as long as it takes to place them all. When his wife helps unwrap the packaging, he moves even faster. Fast enough that your body doesn't have time to adjust to the last needle before the next one is already in. Fast enough to disconnect your breath from your body.

I had to ask him to slow down once. I thought I was going to faint.

He didn't mind. Li Lao Shi doesn't mind letting you drink from the fire hose.

If you ever get him to tell your fortune, you are really in for it.

He can diagnose illness from the color of your face, the strength and sound of your voice, your body odor. He will describe in excruciating detail the ways your habits are working against you. He will tell you, plainly, how you are likely to die. It is all very unpleasant. He made me cry at least once. That is a story for another time.

But here is the thing about Li Lao Shi: he is not cruel. He uses the shock method because he knows people won't listen otherwise. His greatest goal — his real obsession — is getting people to trade bad habits for good ones. To take their health seriously. Not just for themselves, but for everyone around them.

He would say: "Think about it — when you are sick, do you want to work?"

And of course, you don't. But when you feel healthy? When your body is working the way it should? You want to move. You want to build things. You want to show up. That is his whole philosophy in a single question.

In Li Lao Shi's world, health is not an achievement. It is a daily practice — exercise, soaking, meditation. Accumulated slowly, the way stone is shaped by water.

He put it this way:

"Two things you can work on that add up every day: health and knowledge. You don't run six miles and become healthy. Everyday, you do a little, do a little. You don't read a book and become smart. Everyday, you read a little, read a little. And over time, you can become more healthy and know more."

I have been thinking about that idea a lot lately — not just in the context of health, but in everything. Writing. Business. Tea. The slow accumulation of something real.

Every morning I ask myself what I will write. My goal is to show up at the blank page and make something only I can make. When I do, something releases. I feel like I have given what I have to give. And then — strangely — I find myself more present with the people around me. Someone at the bank. Anyone I run into. There is a connection there that feels almost surreal, like I am talking to someone I have known across lifetimes.

I think Li Lao Shi would understand that feeling. He visits me in my dreams sometimes.

I am still working on getting him to visit in person.

This was not what I expected. Taiwan has one of the deepest hot tea cultures in the world — gong fu brewing, clay teapots, multiple short steeps, paying close attention to every detail of temperature and timing. These were people who took tea seriously. And here they were, dropping leaves into cold water and sticking them in the fridge overnight like it was the most natural thing in the world.

I asked about it. The answer was simple: summer in Taiwan is brutal. Humid, relentless heat that makes sitting down to a hot gong fu session feel less like a ritual and more like a punishment. Cold brew wasn’t a compromise. It was an adaptation. And once I tried it, I understood immediately why it had caught on.

The flavor is different in a way that’s hard to describe until you experience it. Hot water extracts quickly and aggressively — it pulls everything out of the leaf at once, including some of the bitterness and astringency that give tea its edge. Cold water is slower and gentler. It takes 12 to 24 hours to do what hot water does in minutes, but what you get at the end is smoother, less acidic, and somehow more nuanced. Notes that get lost in a hot steep come forward in a cold one. A floral oolong becomes something almost delicate. A fruity tea opens up in ways you don’t expect.

I came back from that trip and started cold brewing at the teahouse. Customers who had never considered drinking tea in summer suddenly had a reason to. It became one of those quiet revelations — not a trend, just a better way to enjoy something you already loved, adapted to the season.

Cold Brew vs. Iced Tea: Not the Same Thing

Cold brew tea isn't the same as iced tea, and the distinction matters. Iced tea was already popular in Taiwan — especially among college students and office workers — and it's almost always made by brewing hot and pouring over ice. It works great, but the flavor is slightly different. There's something genuinely fun about experiencing that lighter, cleaner extraction side by side with what you're used to.

Cold brew flips the process entirely. Because you’re extracting with cold water over a long period — 12 to 24 hours — you get all of the caffeine, all of the beneficial compounds, and all of the flavor the leaf has to offer. What you don’t get is the astringency. Cold water simply doesn’t extract tannins the way hot water does. The result is a cleaner, smoother cup that lets the tea speak for itself.

How to Cold Brew Tea

The method couldn’t be simpler. One gram of tea per 100ml of cold water. A mason jar or a water bottle. Cold drinking water straight from the tap or filtered. Twelve to twenty-four hours in the fridge. Strain it through a mesh strainer — or a rinsed cloth filter if you want it crystal clear — and you’re done. It keeps in the fridge for up to three days, though in my experience it rarely lasts that long.

The ratio scales easily:

— Quart mason jar (1,000ml): 10 grams of tea

— 750ml water bottle: 7.5 grams of tea

No special equipment required. No kettle, no thermometer, no timer. Just tea, water, and patience.

8 Teas Worth Trying Cold This Summer

Not every tea cold brews equally well. The ones that shine tend to be lighter, more aromatic, and lower in tannins. Here are eight teas I’d recommend starting with:

Grapefruit Oolong — bright and citrusy cold, almost like a natural sparkling water without the bubbles.

Green Gold — the floral notes come forward beautifully in cold water.

Green Spring — clean and refreshing, one of the most straightforwardly satisfying cold brews we carry.

Ah Li Jade — a high mountain oolong that develops a silky texture cold that you don’t quite get hot.

Otter Rock Oolong — slightly more body than the others, holds up well over a full 24-hour steep.

Charcoal Seasons Oolong — the honey notes intensify cold in a way that makes this one feel almost indulgent.

Ba Gua Mountain — complex and layered, one of those teas that rewards a slow cold steep.

Fire Ape — aged white tea cold brewed is something special. Smooth, deep, and unlike anything else on this list.

If you’ve never cold brewed before, start with the Grapefruit Oolong or the Green Gold Oolong. They’re approachable, immediately delicious, and will make a convert out of you before the first glass is finished.

Put something in the fridge tonight. Summer is here.

It's not just that I'm a tea snob. It's that I know better now. And look — plenty of people love this stuff. But come on.

Anyway, I was happily brewing away day after day until I met the man who would eventually become my teacher. At the time he was just a friend. I told him proudly that I'd been having a great time with tea — the King's Tea, actually, expensive stuff from Ten Ren. He bowed his head. Shook it slowly from side to side. Then he got up, went to the back, and returned with a neatly packaged bag of tea. "Try this," he said.

So I did. I went home, brewed it up, and — oh my goodness. It was an osmanthus-scented oolong.

I was completely head over heels. I brewed it every chance I got — morning, noon, and night. I became so familiar with the scent that I felt almost compelled to seek it out, session after session. I couldn't believe what I'd been missing.

Then one afternoon, sitting on a bench in a park in Taiwan, the aroma of osmanthus drifted through the air. You have to understand — it's a distinct scent. Like jasmine, but stickier, earthier, a little fruitier, with that same clean quality. I couldn't figure out where it was coming from. I turned around, and the wall behind me was an osmanthus bush in full bloom.

I sat there for a long moment, completely absorbed. And then, just like that, I was transported back to the tea table. I turned to my friend and said, "Hey — tea sounds really good right now. Come over, I'll brew some." And that's exactly what we did.

That's the thing about sensory memory. Something as tactile as an osmanthus-scented oolong can reach back through time and pull you somewhere specific — a feeling, a place, a moment.

Recently I imported three batches of osmanthus-scented oolong for the shop. There's a high mountain oolong — the sweetest of the three. A milk oolong, which is just sublime. And an Iron Goddess of Mercy. What inspired me to source these? Honestly, it was prep for the International Tea Festival in San Francisco. Last time I was there, I noticed the palate of the crowd was a bit different than what I encounter here in the Pacific Northwest, and I wanted to bring something that would land well. These were some of the best I could find.

Interestingly, while I was brewing this tea for a friend at the teahouse, they mentioned there's a large osmanthus plant up in Hendricks Park. So we made a trip — camera in hand — to photograph it and grab some footage for the YouTube channel. The flowers won't be in bloom until September or October, so I'll update you when the time comes. For now, check out the images below, and let's find some time to brew a pot of osmanthus oolong together soon.

Here's the honest answer.

I was living in Taiwan. Tea sales were growing — more customers, more wholesale accounts, more tea moving out the door. At that point I was doing wholesale only, no retail, no teahouse. Just me and the tea and the people who wanted it.

My parents had been watching from a distance, helping out a little here and there, seeing the growth firsthand. My mom especially wanted me to move back to the US. She brought it up often, and one day during a phone call she really pressed me on it.

So I just asked her straight: "If I move back, what am I going to do for a living?"

I remembered what it felt like to be a young adult in the US — the financial pressure of just trying to keep the lights on, nothing extravagant, just surviving. That feeling was still very real to me.

Her answer? Sell tea.

Just like that. No hesitation.

That meant a lot. It was encouraging to know she had that kind of faith in me. But I still had doubts. A lot of them.

Shortly after, I was sitting with my teacher in his shop in Taiwan — one of those slow, quiet afternoons where the tea does most of the talking. I told him I was seriously considering making the move, going all in on the tea business back in the States. And then I told him the truth: I had doubts. I was nervous. I didn't know if I could do it.

He looked at me and said:

"If you want to be an ox, you just need to put on the yoke."

That was it. That was all he said.

Ancient wisdom. Simple and direct. Maybe I had been making it too complicated. Maybe readiness isn't a destination you arrive at — maybe it's something you grow into by starting.

I wasn't ready when I started selling tea. And that turned out to be okay.

What I was ready to do was work. I was willing to put in the time, to show up, to keep going even when I didn't know exactly what I was doing — which, honestly, was a lot of the time. I didn't always do the right thing. I didn't always know what I should be doing. But I wasn't trying to cut corners. I just didn't have all the answers yet.

Over the course of 20-plus years, the answers came. Not all at once. Slowly, through the doing.

There's no sign from the heavens. There's no mentor or guru who's going to appear and tell you that your dream is the right one, that the timing is perfect, that you're finally ready to begin.

You have to take a leap of faith. You have to be willing to put in the time and effort. And you have to keep moving.

Zig Ziglar said it well: "If you wait for all the traffic lights to turn green before you leave your home, you'll never get started on your trip to the top."

Stop. Go. Stop. Go. That's the rhythm. That's how you get there.

The goal isn't to have everything figured out before you start. The goal is to put on the yoke — and start pulling.

I learned this on a late night in Taiwan, sitting across from my tea teacher in his shop long after everything else on the street had gone dark and quiet.

It was just the two of us. He brewed a pot of something that stopped me mid-sip. The flavor was extraordinary — layered and clean and alive in a way that most tea never is. I set down my cup and asked if I could buy it.

He said no.

Not rudely. Just simply. No.

I understood, at least intellectually. When you're in the tea business and you have a batch this good, you don't wholesale it away. You keep it. You brew it for people who matter, people whose reaction tells the room everything about your knowledge and your taste. A tea like this isn't inventory — it's reputation.

So I let it go. We kept drinking. And the conversation drifted somewhere unexpected.

He started talking about his marriage. The difficulties. The distance that had opened up between him and his wife, and how he didn't quite know what to do with it. I don't know exactly why he chose to share it that night — maybe it was the hour, maybe it was the tea, maybe it was just one of those moments when something needs to come out and the right person happens to be sitting there.

I listened. We talked. I shared what I thought, not as advice exactly, but as someone who cared about him and was trying to understand. We sat with it together for an hour or two, the way you can only do when the rest of the world has gone to sleep.

When the conversation finally came to its natural end, I asked again. Would he sell me the tea?

He turned his head for a moment. Then said yes.

Something had shifted. Not because I had maneuvered it or planned it — I hadn't. But because two people had been genuinely present with each other, and the relationship had moved to a different depth. The tea followed.

That's what I mean by relationship tea. The best teas in Taiwan aren't commodities. They exist inside relationships, and they move only when the relationship is ready to carry them. You can have all the money in the world and still be told no. And you can have a real conversation at midnight in a dark tea house and walk away with something priceless.

I've thought about that night many times since. Not just because of the tea, but because of what it taught me about how value actually works in this world — and how much of what we most want can't be bought directly, only arrived at sideways, through presence and honesty and the willingness to just sit with someone in the hard parts of their life.

The tea was exceptional. The conversation was better.

The first time someone told me we'd leave when it felt right, I didn't know what to say.

It was about 10 o'clock at night in Taipei. We'd been drinking tea since morning — first at an all-day tasting event, then at dinner, and now at one of the most extraordinary tea houses I'd ever been in. The owner was a scholar and collector, the kind of person who thinks about tea the way a musician thinks about sound. The room was full of people from the tea industry, and the conversation had been flowing as freely as the tea itself.

I was living in Tainan at the time. That's a five-hour drive south. And as the evening stretched on, I started doing the math in my head, the way you do. Ten o'clock means we get home at three in the morning, minimum. I leaned over to my friend — the one who'd brought me on this trip — and asked when we were thinking of heading back.

He looked at me with a kind of calm that I wasn't used to yet. "We're going to drink tea," he said, "until there's a certain feeling. And then we'll go."

I didn't know how to argue with that. I also didn't quite know what it meant. A feeling? What feeling? By what time? But there was no clock in his answer, no schedule, no negotiation to be had. He meant it completely.

So I let go of the math and went back to the tea.

What happened next was one of the best educational experiences I'd had in the tea world up to that point. The host walked us through his collection of tea ware — the way certain pieces were arranged, why certain pots belonged with certain teas, how the objects in a room create an atmosphere that changes what you taste. I was absorbing things I didn't even know I needed to learn.

And then, somewhere around midnight, the feeling arrived. I couldn't tell you exactly what it was — a fullness, a completeness, a sense that the evening had given everything it had to give. We said our goodbyes and got on the road.

We stopped in Taichung on the way, dropping off one of the tea masters who had been with us. He lived about halfway home. As we approached his neighborhood, he'd been telling us about these candied kumquats — building up the story with the kind of slow relish that tea people have for good things. He'd tasted some once in Japan that had cost something like $300 each. He'd been describing the texture, the sweetness, the way the flavor sat in your mouth long after.

When we got to his building, he said: come up, I have some I want to share with you.

So at two in the morning, we sat in his apartment, surrounded by teapots on every surface, while he brewed tea and served us these tiny, luminous kumquats. They were extraordinary.

Then he gestured at a shelf on the wall. He was letting go of the teapots there, he said. Did I like to brew tea? Why didn't I go pick one for myself?

I'd been saving up for a good teapot for a while. I'd been studying them, trying to understand the clay, the craftsmanship, the things that separate a fine pot from an ordinary one. And here was an entire shelf, in the apartment of someone who actually knew.

I went slowly. I looked at each one. I didn't know as much as I wished I did, but I knew enough to recognize quality. I chose a small pot with a distinctive stamp and lines in the clay that told you it had been made by hand. Clean, precise, completely itself.

I still have that teapot. I'm looking at it as I write this.

We got back to Tainan around five in the morning. That was one of my first real immersions into this world — the world of people for whom tea is not a drink but a way of organizing life around beauty and presence and the unhurried moment. When I saw my friend's wife not long after, she laughed and asked if those people had scared me off, keeping me out all night like that.

They hadn't. They'd done the opposite.

I came back with a teapot, a story, and a slowly forming understanding that some of the best things in life don't happen on a schedule. They happen when the feeling is right. And when you stop fighting that, when you stop doing the math and just trust the evening, you sometimes end up somewhere you never could have planned.

As you might imagine, my algorithm is absolutely packed with tea tips, hacks, and tiny bits of tea wisdom. Most of the time they’re entertaining, sometimes they’re questionable—but every now and then something pops up that’s intriguing enough to try.

This one?
Lights-out success.
So good I had to share it immediately.

A Simple Seasonal Brew

This recipe is as humble as it gets—just fruit, ginger, and heat—but it creates one of the most soothing cups I’ve had all season.

Here’s how to make it:

1. Chop up an apple into small chunks.

2. Add a few pieces of our new organic ginger chunks.

3. Boil everything for 5 minutes in enough water to fill your favorite mug.

4. Strain into your mug and sip while it’s warm.

That’s it.

What you get is a naturally sweet, gently spicy apple-ginger “tea” that feels like comfort itself.

Why It Works

This little brew is:

• Calming

• Delicious

• Great for digestion

• Warming without being heavy

And according to Chinese medicine, apples are cold, but once you cook them, they are warm. This and ginger together help support the spleen—an organ tied to digestion, vitality, and overall balance—meaning this simple cup offers subtle nourishment beyond just flavor.

Tea… and a Snack

Here’s the part I didn’t expect:
After you drink the tea, you can eat the soft, boiled apple.

It turns into this warm, gently spiced treat—almost like the simplest, healthiest dessert ever. A tea and a snack in one, made from ingredients you probably already have.

Seasonal, Simple, and Nourishing

Not every discovery has to be complicated. Sometimes the algorithm delivers something surprisingly thoughtful—a reminder that even small, everyday ingredients can become comforting, restorative, and special.

Give it a try the next chilly evening.
Your body (and your mood) will thank you.

During my vacation I picked up a book about a young man who goes through a profound process of self-discovery. He enters university without a clear sense of direction and, almost by accident, stumbles into the world of literature. Something sparks. He falls in love with stories, language, and the written word—an art form he had never truly encountered before. That love reshapes him. He transforms his life, his studies, even his identity, eventually becoming a professor of literature.

Reading his journey got me thinking about awakening—how we come to recognize the things that move us, the things that were always there waiting to be discovered.

I’ve also been reflecting on the powerful effect that art has on people, how it reaches into the quiet places inside us and draws something forward. And all of that, inevitably, leads me back to tea.

Tea has always been intertwined with art in my mind, especially in Taiwan, where tea is not only one of life’s great pleasures, a digestive aid, and a wonderful conversation companion—it is art. Making tea, using handmade teaware, drinking from porcelain or clay cups, arranging a simple tea table: all of it becomes an expression of beauty. Craftsmanship. Intention. Presence.

The thoughtful presentation of tea elevates something simple and ordinary into something profound.
A leaf, some water, and heat become an experience that opens the senses.

As I sat with these thoughts over the past few days, I realized something: tea represents awakening.

Not just because the caffeine wakes us up—though it certainly does—but because tea invites us to wake up to ourselves. To slow down enough to notice. To pay attention. To let nuance and subtlety remind us of what we’re capable of feeling.

Tea awakens us to the discovery of art.
Tea awakens us to the discovery of beauty in the everyday.
Tea awakens us, ultimately, to the discovery of the self.

I started J-TEA because I once wanted to like tea but couldn’t — until living in Taiwan showed me what real tea could be. That discovery reshaped everything.

Now I help others make that same discovery: that tea isn’t just a drink, it’s a bridge — between cultures, between people, and between who we are and who we’re becoming.

Tea is a pen pal for the soul, and J-TEA is here to deliver the letter.

Not only does it serve countless functions, but it also bears the heaviest burden of all: it’s the part that most often breaks. One of my tea teachers in Taiwan used to love giving mini lectures and demos about all the ways a gaiwan lid could be used. After years of brewing, spilling, and learning, I can confirm — that little porcelain disc is basically a multi-tool for tea survival.

1. The Obvious: Keeping the Heat In

First and foremost, the lid does what lids do — it keeps the heat inside. When you’re brewing tea, this helps maintain a higher temperature so the leaves can unfurl and release their full aroma and flavor.

2. The Strainer: A Perfect Pour

Here’s where things get interesting. With a slight tilt, the lid turns into a built-in strainer. By creating just the right gap between the lid and the bowl, you can pour out the tea liquor while holding the leaves back. This is particularly useful when we are going for multiple infusions.

Think of it like straining pasta with the pot lid — except in this case, you don’t end up with a sink full of spaghetti. The gaiwan lid was designed for this precise function.

3. The Aroma Evaluator

Once you’ve poured your tea, hold the lid to your nose. This moment — inhaling the rising fragrance from the lid — is one of the most intimate ways to connect with your tea. The leaf’s aroma and quality can be interpreted by the residual scent.

4. The Stirring Tool

Hold the lid perpendicular to the bowl and use it to gently agitate the leaves. This helps you check the progress of the brew — or simply interact with the tea in a tactile, meditative way. Sometimes you can tell a lot about how the tea is evolving just by watching how the leaves move.

5. The Silent Messenger

In traditional teahouses in parts of China, the position of your gaiwan lid could send a clear message to the attendant:

• Tilted to the side — “Please add hot water.”
• Upside down in the bowl — “I’m done.”

It was an unspoken communication system, efficient and elegant.

And there’s even a more obscure version: rotating the lid clockwise or counterclockwise a certain number of times was said to signal group affiliation — a kind of secret handshake or “tea gang sign” for the initiated.

6. The Cup in a Pinch

Lost your teacup? The lid’s shallow curve works surprisingly well as an emergency drinking vessel. It’s not the most refined method, but it gets the job done — especially when sharing tea outdoors or on the road.

The Lid That Does It All

From heat retention to straining, aroma evaluation, stirring, signaling, and even sipping — the gaiwan lid truly does it all.
It’s elegant, functional, and quietly indispensable. And yet, it’s also fragile — often the first part to break. Maybe that’s fitting. For something that carries so much purpose, it’s only natural that it also bears a little extra vulnerability.

So next time you lift that lid, remember: it’s not just a piece of porcelain. It’s a teacher, a tool, a communicator — and, in its own way, a survivor.