As early as I can remember, my answer to the question “what’s your favorite color?” was
indubitably, wholeheartedly “purple.”
I sometimes addressed the color by different monikers, varying in sophistication, as I grew up. I
occasionally chose different shades of the same hue. In elementary school, it was light purple or
pastel purple. In high school, it was lilac, lavender, or mauve.
I loved seeing the purple that appeared in streaks across the expanse of the sky mid-sunset. I
loved amethysts, asters, and jellyfish.
My favorite color seemed so set in stone that I thought the foundations of that opinion would
never crack. My favorite food, animal, and number would morph and evolve over time, as I
associated them with different memories and experiences throughout my life. Those answers
were transient and capricious, but I never thought that these descriptors would come to apply to
my favorite color as well.
My childhood neighborhood had cookie-cutter houses. The HOA provided a predetermined list
of approved colors to paint the exterior walls. My house was a muted yellow, simple and
unremarkable. I never gave it much thought. To me, it wasn’t the worst option, but it wasn’t the
best either.
My sister and I routinely went on long bike rides around the neighborhood. Its perimeter hardly
measured a mile, but we cycled in repeated loops. We would go around and around, for hours
at a time, stopping by the kids’ playground and the community pool, picking up bougainvillea
petals and coins and stray toys forgotten on the street.
We would point at the house in the corner with the largest backyard and call it a mansion. We
rated the seasonal decorations of every decked out home, pitching them against one another as
if it was a competition. We commented on the fonts of all the house numbers, and judged the
custom brick patterns of different driveways.
There were houses painted blue and houses painted pink. I didn’t like the khaki or beige
shades. I thought the orange was merely okay.
The green homes were my favorite. They were the shade of olive and sage – like an opaque
peridot. The color was reminiscent of the green tea I would brew in my mug and add milk and
sugar to.
I made my green tea the way my grandmother taught me to when I was twelve. I didn’t know it
back then, but it was an approximation of a matcha latte – a DIY version with the ingredients I
already had in the house.
Years later, after moving out, I would buy the occasional matcha latte when I stopped by the
Starbucks on my college campus, or when I fueled my car at the Wawa by my apartment before
embarking on the four hour commute back to my hometown.
I got matcha boba from local shops with my peers after our monthly meetings at the Asian
Student Association. I tried matcha ice cream for the first time at a dessert store downtown after
spending an afternoon at the mall.
It wasn’t until I made a new friend at my university’s run club that I began considering buying
matcha powder to use at home. My friend introduced me to the various qualities of matcha
available, ranging from the cheap kinds that are sold at the grocery store, all the way to hojicha
– a roasted green tea with a rich, earthy flavor.
As a Chinese American woman, I grew up with tea in my everyday life. Whether it was black
tea, oolong, or chrysanthemum, my family typically brewed and consumed it as it is, without any
sweeteners or add-ins. I had plenty of green tea in my childhood, but never true matcha. It’s one
of the few things I picked up in my adulthood.
Matcha originated in China around the 7th century, but it is commonly associated with Japanese
culture in the modern time. Japan is where my friend and I obtain imported matcha powder
from, and between our pre-workout caffeine doses and our mid-study session boba treats, we
acknowledge the history and culture behind our favorite beverage, and how it has brought us
together the same way it has done for many others.
Preferences and opinions are always subject to change, and somewhere in the middle of being
a moody teenager and a college student figuring out her future, I found myself responding
“matcha” to inquiries about my favorite color. It pinpoints the exact shade of green I want to
convey, and it’s an answer that gives an insight into who I am as an individual.
It’s the perfect icebreaker for people who want to get to know me.
Comments