Wormwood's reputation rests less on flavour than on the company it kept. This is the plant that goes into absinthe, the spirit that fuelled a certain corner of 19th-century Paris and the artists and writers drinking it, and the tea carries a trace of that same bitter backbone without the proof. It comes from the leaves and stems of Artemisia absinthium, a plant that spreads across temperate Europe, Asia, and North Africa wherever the ground drains well and the sun gets in, and it has been part of European herbal practice for centuries — mostly as something reached for to settle the stomach.
The cup itself opens sharp: an earthy bitterness hits first and holds on the palate. Underneath that sit sage, anise, and a grassy undertone that softens the initial hit. Give it a minute to cool and the profile shifts again — a floral note and a bit of citrus zest come forward, and the aftertaste turns clean, almost cooling, rather than harsh. It's not a subtle tea, and it isn't trying to be — the bitterness is the point, not a flaw to brew around, though a spoon of honey or a squeeze of lemon takes the edge off if you want it.
Brewing is straightforward: a teaspoon of the dried leaf and stem per cup, water off the boil, and a steep of about seven to eight minutes — closer to ten if you want the full bitter character. Strain before drinking. It rewards patience more than precision, and it's better suited to someone who already likes assertive, medicinal-leaning herbals than to a first-time herbal drinker looking for something easy.
