Matcha Do About Nothing?

If you’d told 19-year-old me — trudging through UTS Business School a watery matcha latte in a sad paper cup — that one day I’d be elbow-deep in clay designing my own matcha bowls, I would’ve rolled my eyes so hard they’d still be stuck in 2004.

And yet, here we are. Another Friday, another rabbit hole — this one lined in fine, velvety green powder that makes my pottery slip look like builder’s sand.

Because this isn’t just about tea — it’s about stories, rituals, craft, supply chains that run from misty mountain groves in Uji to trendy cafés in Sydney. It’s about a drink so ancient and delicate that farmers in Japan are now politely saying, “That’s enough, world. Please calm down.”

So let’s sip and get into it.

Ceremonial Grade? Sorry, Marketing Department.

First myth: Ceremonial Grade matcha. I know, it looks so pretty on a tin. But here’s the thing: there’s no universal definition for it in Japan. It’s not a strict grade — it’s a vibe.

In reality, matcha is sorted more by purpose than poetry:

Koicha — ‘thick tea’ — the good stuff: young, shade-grown leaves, picked by hand, ground on granite mills that move slower than a Monday morning. This is what you’d sip in a formal tea ceremony.

Usucha — ‘thin tea’ — a bit lighter, easier for daily drinking. Still high quality if you know your grower.

Culinary Matcha — bolder, more bitter, perfect for whisking into ice cream or pancakes, or that neon green latte you buy with your oat milk and an existential crisis on the side.

So next time a café menu whispers “Ceremonial Grade” — ask them which ceremony they’re hosting.

The Matcha Supply Squeeze

Matcha isn’t just having a moment — it’s having a whole takeover. Global matcha demand has grown so fast that many small Japanese tea farmers can’t keep up. Why? Because making true matcha is painstaking.

The best matcha comes from shaded tea plants, grown under special straw covers to boost chlorophyll and sweetness. Leaves are hand-picked — only the youngest, softest shoots make the cut. Then they’re steamed, dried, deveined, and stone-milled. Each granite mill turns so slowly it produces just 40 grams an hour. That’s about enough for maybe 20 cups — if you don’t spill half of it on your counter.

And it turns out there’s a limit to how many ancient tea trees and centuries-old stone mills you can conjure up overnight. So in recent years, some Japanese tea producers have started capping exports to protect quality and local supply. If you’ve noticed your favourite matcha getting pricier (or harder to find), that’s why.

It’s also why I’m so stubborn about not jumping on trends for the sake of them. This bright green powder is precious — it deserves more than a passing fad on TikTok.

Storing Matcha: Treat It Like Royalty

If you take just one practical thing away from this ramble, let it be this: matcha is fragile. Light, air, heat, humidity — all sworn enemies.

Always buy small tins — a month’s worth at most — and keep them in the fridge. Use them up, don’t hoard them for someday. Good matcha is like fresh bread: best enjoyed now, not mourned stale and bitter six months later.

The Chawan: A Bowl That’s Not Just a Bowl

So here’s where my pottery brain collides beautifully with my matcha habit. Because sure, any bowl can hold tea — but a chawan holds a story, a purpose, a ritual in clay form.

Making and using a chawan is an act of intention. It ties you back to a line of potters, monks, and farmers who knew that tea isn’t just a drink — it’s a pause.

Anatomy of a Chawan:

Shape & Size: A good chawan sits somewhere between 11 cm and 16 cm wide — roomy enough for your bamboo whisk (chasen) to do its frothy dance without launching green droplets onto your jumper. Too shallow and you’ll be splashing. Too deep and you’ll be fishing for the last sip with your nose.

Foot Ring (Koudai): The koudai lifts the bowl gently off the mat — or your breakfast bench. It gives you somewhere to hold and anchor the bowl in your hands. A beautiful koudai shows off a potter’s skill — perfectly centred, nicely trimmed, solid but delicate. Like the bowl’s best pair of shoes.

Lip (Kuchizukuri): The rim should be smooth, comfortable, and gently flared. Some Tenmoku bowls have a subtle inward curve to keep the foam inside. No rough edges — the bowl should meet your mouth like an old friend, not a scratchy stranger.

Walls (Dou) & Lower Back (Koshi): The body should feel balanced. The koshi — the transition from the wall to the foot — gives you a good grip and a satisfying feel when you lift the bowl. This tiny curve is a small detail that changes how the whole bowl sits in your hands.

Weight & Balance: Some bowls — like a delicate Raku — are light as a whisper. Others — like Tenmoku — feel reassuringly hefty. Each style has its own soul. But a good chawan should feel stable when you whisk, and comfortable when you cradle it on cold mornings.

Texture & Glaze: Inside, it should be smooth so your chasen doesn’t get chewed up. Outside, it might be rough, earthy, or half-glazed — traces of wabi-sabi and the potter’s hands. Some bowls even have a chadamari — a tiny dip where the last sip pools. Some will show gentle marks (chasenzure and chakinzure) from the whisk and cloth. Little scars of use — evidence that the bowl is living its purpose.

A Bowl for All Seasons

The beautiful thing about chawans is they’re seasonal — because tea, like life, changes with the weather.

Winter Chawan: Taller, narrower — keeps the tea warm longer. Like wrapping your matcha in a cosy scarf.

Summer Chawan: Wider, shallower — cools the tea quickly, like swapping the scarf for a breezy linen shirt.

Back to My Hands — and Yours

I’ve drunk matcha since I was broke, exhausted, and cramming essays at uni. Back then it was a cheap thrill — something that felt fancy when I couldn’t afford fancy. Now, designing my own chawan feels like a loop coming full circle.

I’m sketching shapes, testing glazes, running my hands along foot rings and lips — thinking about winter versions, summer versions, quiet wabi forms, playful Oribe-inspired drips. Not to jump on a trend — but to honour a ritual that’s held me up for nearly two decades.

And maybe — when these bowls are done — they’ll hold your pause, too. A tiny moment in the middle of the madness. Because when the world says drink faster, want more, a good chawan says slow down — it’s only tea. And that’s everything.

Until next time,
Nawsheen, your friendly homebody artist from Murrumbateman.