First Flush Fantasies: A Love Letter to Rooibos & Ripening

I’ve had many affairs in my life—flings with fashion, entanglements with ideas, complicated relationships with brunch menus—but nothing, nothing, could have prepared me for falling in love on a tea estate.

They called it first flush—the inaugural harvest of the season’s rooibos. A phrase that sounds almost scandalous in its simplicity. But darling, let me tell you, nothing about it was simple.

I arrived just after sunrise, where the air held a kind of golden hush, as if nature itself hadn’t yet had its coffee. Rolling hills kissed with red soil, the scent of something sun-warmed and sacred—earthy, sweet, and full of promise. This wasn’t a farm. This was a love story. And I had walked right into Chapter One.

My guide, a soft-spoken man named Thabo, handed me a woven basket. “This one is special,” he said, his voice wrapped in reverence. “This is where the bloom begins.”

And just like that, I was harvesting rooibos—not for survival, not for sport, but for ceremony. For a sip of something divine.

Each branch whispered a different lyric: papaya in one hand, pineapple in the air, safflower like blush on a cheek. The scent wasn’t just fruity—it was flirtatious. As if summer and sophistication had a secret rendezvous right there in my basket. I felt like I was bottling joy. Like I was touching something that had waited all year just for me.

At some point, I sat under a wild fig tree, sipped an early infusion straight from the kettle, and nearly cried. Because it wasn’t just tea—it was timing. It was transformation. It was a reminder that even the most glorious blooms require rest, roots, and the courage to show up again.

And maybe that’s what the Bloom Era is all about: the magic in slow ripening, the audacity of flavor, the luxury of arriving exactly when you're supposed to.

This new blend—steeped in papaya dreams, pineapple memory, and safflower skies—will be the centerpiece of our next release. But for me? It’ll always be a passport back to that moment… when I remembered that softness could be powerful, and tea leaves could taste like poetry.

So here’s to the first flush of the season.

To the bloom.

And to the women who pick joy—one steep at a time.