The Five Strands of A Sedentary Empress

my cup of tea

"my cup of tea" 

On average, I think I consume about 5-6 cups of tea a day. It varies, depending on my mood, but I have to say that I drink more of it than any other beverage. I never get tired of watching the slow-rolling russet weather in a cup when I pour boiling water over the bag; lifeblood in a sterile, hot pond. It is beautiful, to me. In fact, one of my favourite movie scenes ever is in the Australian film 'Sirens', the one where the snake is slithering around the tea cup. I can't explain it, but it stops me, every single time I see it. I can't imagine that the person who made the film thought that that scene would be a high point for someone, but it is, and I always wait for it.

I've been drinking tea every day since I was about fifteen? Sixteen? Before that, it was reserved for breakfasts with my grandmother, hot summer nights where I could not sleep in sweat-drenched sheets, sick days home from school. My dad is Irish, my mother's background is English, so tea is a food group. Tea is a rite of passage, a social occasion, a comfort and a commonplace luxury. It is civility in a white cup, and relief in a chipped mug. It is the gentle cousin to loud, rich and fast-talking coffee. It is the quiet scholar in the corner, the pinky in the air, the roses in the garden. While I have a deep affection for coffee, tea is my favourite pillow, my dog-earred book of cherished poems. Coffee is always something of an indulgence, making my heart race and my breath musty. I love it, but I leave it for celebration and deep conversation. No, I'm more of a tea girl. Always will be.

I make tea for M. when he's working. I bring it up in his favourite American Society of Aviation Artists mug with it's star spangled banner and Canadian flag twined together. M. is very particular about his cups, you see. Each one has meaning, and there are many in the cupboard he won't drink from. If his favourites are dirty, he'll extract them from the dishwasher and hand wash them rather than drink from the green mugs K. bought me, or the dainty, white teacups. He likes mugs. He wants something slightly bucket-like. He will drink from my 'It's Ms. Bitch to you' mug, but other than this one exception, he will only drink from the cups from his father's house in France, the mug from the Opera House in Sydney (which is fading from so many trips through the dishwasher, sadly), the aviation art mugs and the one he got from the North Pole when he was there in 2006. I'm happy if the cup is clean and if it's free from chips, but that's me. This does not mean I don't have my favourites, though. I have a blue Denby mug which I sent to him years ago, full of candy which I've claimed as my own. It's a cobalt blue mug with etched leaves in it, and I love it. I also have a big mug with painted shamrocks all over it which I use when I need a lot of tea, and of course, my black 'Ms. Bitch' mug, for sentimental reasons.

I do like milk in my tea, which I know repulses some, but it's how I like it. I need sugar, too, at least two teaspoons, and I suppose I'd be about ten pounds thinner than I am if I could only break that habit. I like it hot, and I do not like floaty things in it, as in loose leaves. I don't like pulp in juice either, just a thing I have. I like clear, pure liquid, otherwise I think of all kinds of vile images and I won't be able to drink it. Oh, and I almost never drain a cup entirely. I have a thing about sediment at the bottom, and I don't like surprises. It's my trademark, leaving a layer of tea in the bottom of a cup, or juice in the bottom of a glass, but I have a sensitive gag reflex so I do what I have to do. I prefer Orange Pekoe and Earl Grey, but will drink Chai whenever I go out. I went through an apple cinnamon herbal tea phase, but it's over now. I will drink green tea occasionally, but it's not the same as my black tea, which I always come home to.

Everyone in my family drinks tea, and I'm always amazed when I offer it to someone and they say they don't drink it. How is this possible? Do you not know about its restorative powers? It's healing properties? The fact that it's so damned good? It calms me, so much. I even bought my dad a box of Bewdley's Tea for Christmas because he misses it so much, and it was one of his favourite gifts. He actually hides the bags so that my mother won't use them for herself. Odd, but true.

I remember going to a club one night with a friend of mine, a dark, upper floored establishment full of black clad people with multiple piercings who were listening to an angry band on stage and how I told the waitress I wanted a cup of tea. She raised her eyebrows at me, and I leaned back in my chair with folded arms, in my black jeans, leather jacket and Doc Martens and waited for her to say something. Then, she smiled at me with her blood red matte lips and left, only to return with a steaming cup of it to which I made all kinds of sounds of appreciation before sipping from the lip of the cup. It was delicious. It was hot and steamy. I didn't care what anyone thought about it, and I remember leaning back once more and listening to the band, actually liking them. I left my waitress a fat tip.

Sometimes, particularly when I'm writing, I reach for phantom cups. It's like it's a part of me, this addiction to steeped leaves in boiling water. It feels clean, though, like it's a refined monkey on my back. I'm okay with it. I know I'm not the only one. M. told me that when he was going to school in Kuwait years ago, he met with a group of Bedouins in the desert and they invited him into their tent for refreshment. It was tea, and he was grateful to have been invited, but after something like six cups, he was ready to bust. The thing was, when he'd get to the bottom of the cup, without asking for it, the gentleman with the teapot would fill it to the brim again, to which he was obliged to say thank you, and drink. They were chuckling to themselves, and eventually someone told him that you have to shake the cup slightly when you've finished, indicating that you've had enough, otherwise you must keep accepting their tea, so as not to offend them. Remember this if ever you are in a tent with tea-happy Bedouins.

I love the sound of a spoon tinkling against walls of china or ceramic. I like the huffiness of a kettle on the stovetop. It always sounds like home to me, makes me think of warm beds, fires in the hearth, strong arms around me. I feel the roots of my family and the more pleasant memories from my past rise up from the dirt and tickle the bottoms of my feet.

It stains your teeth, though. I guess nothing is perfect.