Not scorching the leaf. Waking the aroma.

I like hojicha. I liked it enough to start an association.

It began one evening in the kitchen, roasting tea leaf in a pan. On the hōroku the green leaves turned the colour of a fox's coat, the whole room filled with a toasted smell, and in that moment I thought: this is the same world as coffee. Temperature and time in the roast turn aroma and taste into something else. Roast lightly and the tea's sweetness stays; roast deeply and the toastiness comes forward. From the same leaf, many different hojicha. Roasting tea the way you roast beans. I wanted to share how interesting that is with more people.

Hojicha has always been the supporting player of daily life: the tea that comes after a meal, the cup at an inn, the kettle at school. It never tries to take the lead, and that offhandedness is part of what is good about it. But behind the everyday cup lie countless choices — stems or leaves, which growing area, which season's tea, and what kind of fire to roast it with. Kaga bōcha, the roasted teas of Kyoto's tea merchants, the deep firing of Kyushu. Each place has its own face.

What we want to pass on is not difficult etiquette. It is the pleasure of smelling, drinking, and being able to say 'today's is a little deeper'. Because this is a tea that children and older people have drunk at the same table, anyone can stand at the entrance.

The Japan Hojicha Association wants to grow the number of people who can talk about hojicha starting from the roast, to find shops across the country where hojicha takes the lead, and to collect the words of the people who make it. Look something up in the encyclopedia, play with the quiz, take the map and go to a shop. If that cup tastes a little more toasted than usual, then we have done our job.

Representative, Japan Hojicha Association