There are two kinds of tea that hold a very special place in my heart.

English tea and Indian masala chai.

They are completely different experiences, but I think I love them both for the same reason.

They are attached to memories.

Growing up with a British mom, tea was simply part of life.

My mother loved her cuppa tea, preferably with a little biscuit or something sweet alongside it. She was raising five children, so this wasn’t some leisurely afternoon ritual that happened promptly at three o’clock every day. There were plenty of days when I’m sure she barely had time to sit down.

But eventually, at some point in the day, there would be Mom with her big English teacup.

Finally sitting.

Finally having her tea.

And usually having a little treat with it.

As we got older, she would sometimes invite us to sit down and have tea with her, and I loved that. There was something about being invited into that little moment that made the tea taste better. I remember thinking those were some of the best cups of tea in the world.

And for a long time, I thought they were.

Then, sometime in my early twenties, I went to an Indian restaurant.

A friend told me I needed to order the masala chai.

So I did.

And suddenly tea became something completely different.

The chai arrived already sweetened, which at the time I assumed was simply how chai came. I didn’t know that every restaurant and every family might make it differently. I didn’t know there were endless variations in the spices, the sweetness, the milk, or the strength of the tea.

All I knew was that it was absolutely delicious.

And the aroma.

That may have been what captured me first.

Cardamom. Ginger. Clove. Cinnamon. Tea and milk simmering together with all those spices until the fragrance seems to fill every corner of the room.

Honestly, I could put a pot of chai on the stove every morning just to make my kitchen smell like that.

The aroma is part of drinking it.

Over the next forty years, chai became woven into another collection of memories.

Because of all the traveling I did for golf, I had the opportunity to eat in Indian restaurants in many different places, and I have certainly had my fair share of chai. I’ve tasted versions that were heavily spiced, others that were delicate. Some had lots of ginger, some more cardamom or clove. Some arrived sweetened and others came with the sweetener alongside.

And somehow, I loved them all.

That’s one of the beautiful things about masala chai. There isn’t one recipe that every kitchen follows. In India, chai is part of everyday life, and families and chai makers develop their own blends and preferences. The recipe often seems to live more in the hands of the person making it than on a piece of paper.

I’ve even had a couple of Indian friends generously give me their family recipes over the years.

But in the end, I’ve found that I like to keep mine fairly simple.

Cardamom and ginger form the heart of it, with cinnamon, black pepper, and plenty of clove.

I happen to love cloves, so my hand can become a little heavy there.

No surprise.

I also still like my chai the way I first learned to drink it all those years ago—already sweetened.

Only now, instead of sugar, I use maple syrup.

I don’t want it to taste like dessert, but I want enough sweetness to round out those spices and make the whole cup feel comforting. And I don’t make the tea itself terribly strong because, for me, the spices have always been more interesting than the caffeine.

If you’re sensitive to caffeine, you can make it with decaffeinated tea. I did that for years, and you still get the beautiful experience of masala chai because so much of its personality comes from those spices.

There is another ritual attached to chai for me too.

After so many years of sharing Indian meals with friends, ending the meal with chai became almost inseparable from the experience.

We would eat curries and rice and vegetables, tear pieces of naan, talk far longer than we probably intended, and eventually there would be chai.

A good Indian meal without that final cup began to feel as though something were missing.

Perhaps that’s why making it at home can bring back so many memories with the first sip.

These days I make it in my own Sol Canyon Kitchen here at The Nob.

Sometimes it’s early in the morning and the house is still quiet. I’ll stand at my kitchen window with a warm cup in my hands, looking outside while the steam rises from the tea and sometimes lingers against the window.

Those are reflective moments for me.

And somehow one cup can hold a surprising amount of time.

I can be standing in my kitchen today and also remember being in my twenties, tasting masala chai for the first time.

I can remember restaurants in different cities during my years traveling for golf and all the friends who sat across the table from me.

And somewhere in that simple ritual of holding a warm cup, I can even find my way back to my mother with her big English teacup, finally sitting down after a busy day with five children and enjoying her little biscuit.

Different tea.

Different spices.

Different memories.

But perhaps the ritual isn’t so different after all.

You make something warm. You sit down. You share it with someone you love when you’re fortunate enough to have company, or you enjoy the quiet when you’re alone.

And for a little while, you stop.

That’s why I can’t imagine putting this recipe anywhere other than Small Beautiful Things.

Because a pot of fragrant tea simmering on the stove doesn’t seem particularly important.

Neither does standing at a kitchen window early in the morning with your hands wrapped around a warm cup.

But somehow those are exactly the little moments we remember.

And if there’s enough chai left in the pot for a second cup—or perhaps a third—even better.

Some beautiful things really are that simple.