A Cup of Tea
For a good part of my life, I was a coffee achiever. In college, I drank it black, 2 sugars. By senior year I averaged at least 6 to 8 large coffees a day.
This continued until one day I reflected that I was constantly exhausted, and thirsty and would get blinding headaches when I dared skip even one day without a blast of black gold.
First I was sad, then annoyed at my addiction. So I stopped.
I still drink coffee as a treat, after a really good meal, or when I'm out with friends (needless to say I haven't been drinking much coffee lately), or if I need to stay alert for a night drive to NJ to visit family. But for all intents and purposes, I stopped with the coffee. Instead, I began to drink tea.
My mother gave me one of her wedding presents when I graduated from college. It was a teapot, with a matching sugar bowl and creamer. The pot is one of those nice, round cozy shapes, painted with violets. It came from Prince Edward Island, sometime in the 1960's.
And now it is one of my only vehicles of personal ritual in an otherwise Impling dominated existence.
It helps that I truly enjoy tea. Earl Grey, Gunpowder, a good Jasmine, Irish Breakfast when I want to actually use cream and sugar. I love the tin cannisters, the smell that floats up when I open a fresh tin. And I love making my tea. I heat the water almost to boiling, but not quite. I rinse the pot out with hot water.
I steep 5 minutes for black teas, 3 minutes for green tea (unless it's Gunpowder, then it gets 4). The sound of the tea curling from the spout of my fat little teapot is soothing. The tea cools in a ceramic mug from a trip to Ireland long ago, and the vapor is almost as soothing as the tea itself.
I drink my tea. Usually, at this point, I have little time to sit at leisure to enjoy it. Many times it is abandoned as the Impling demands her rituals...of going to the playground to methodically swing in every single swing (a different view from each swing, I guess), of reading Sheep in a Jeep 5 times consecutively, of climbing and flopping on the couch over and over, of taking all her clothes (or books, or toys, or snack foods) and spreading them over the floor.
But no matter, I've had my own ritual. My piece of quiet, a small space of time to watch the steam rise from the hot water saturating the tea leaves, and let my mind float whimsically for a few moments, until the timer goes off.
This continued until one day I reflected that I was constantly exhausted, and thirsty and would get blinding headaches when I dared skip even one day without a blast of black gold.
First I was sad, then annoyed at my addiction. So I stopped.
I still drink coffee as a treat, after a really good meal, or when I'm out with friends (needless to say I haven't been drinking much coffee lately), or if I need to stay alert for a night drive to NJ to visit family. But for all intents and purposes, I stopped with the coffee. Instead, I began to drink tea.
My mother gave me one of her wedding presents when I graduated from college. It was a teapot, with a matching sugar bowl and creamer. The pot is one of those nice, round cozy shapes, painted with violets. It came from Prince Edward Island, sometime in the 1960's.
And now it is one of my only vehicles of personal ritual in an otherwise Impling dominated existence.
It helps that I truly enjoy tea. Earl Grey, Gunpowder, a good Jasmine, Irish Breakfast when I want to actually use cream and sugar. I love the tin cannisters, the smell that floats up when I open a fresh tin. And I love making my tea. I heat the water almost to boiling, but not quite. I rinse the pot out with hot water.
I steep 5 minutes for black teas, 3 minutes for green tea (unless it's Gunpowder, then it gets 4). The sound of the tea curling from the spout of my fat little teapot is soothing. The tea cools in a ceramic mug from a trip to Ireland long ago, and the vapor is almost as soothing as the tea itself.
I drink my tea. Usually, at this point, I have little time to sit at leisure to enjoy it. Many times it is abandoned as the Impling demands her rituals...of going to the playground to methodically swing in every single swing (a different view from each swing, I guess), of reading Sheep in a Jeep 5 times consecutively, of climbing and flopping on the couch over and over, of taking all her clothes (or books, or toys, or snack foods) and spreading them over the floor.
But no matter, I've had my own ritual. My piece of quiet, a small space of time to watch the steam rise from the hot water saturating the tea leaves, and let my mind float whimsically for a few moments, until the timer goes off.
Comments
I think I need a cup of tea.
btw, had to come over and say hellow. I saw your comment on lildb's site and saw that you were a fellow Mass lady. Good to meet you.
Where are you? Around Boston? I'll be over to check out your site...now the Impling is calling for me to "Ree Ree"
Literary hour is upon us.