Clare Goldfarb
She’s never had a cup of zavarka-infused tea from it, because this samovar — a treasured heirloom from Odessa — now serves only the best, long-evening inflected, artisanal stories.
My samovar, which now sits in the center of my living room, always rested on a little table in the corner of my parents’ dining room. It’s a no-nonsense peasant affair, barrel-shaped and made of brass. It stands 18 inches high and has a round drip bowl underneath its spout.