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On the Lingering Pleasures of Drinking Tea
Sticking on the kettle is all the self care I need
I remember hating tea. Juice, I understood. Fruity bursts of sweetness, in all manner of enticing flavours. Apple. (‘Cloudy’ apple, as I heard an elderly gentleman clamour for on the bus, already planning his visit to a friend’s house.) Pear. Pineapple. Mango. (The cloyingly sweet nectar version sold in those iconic blue laminated cans I still gush over with friends who also remember childhood trips to Asian grocery stores.) Water I took as a given. Refreshing on a hot summer’s day, a staple like bread or margarine on any other. But this weakly flavoured liquid that to me mostly tasted grassy or plain ‘off’ was too mild to interest me.
And then, I went to England and suddenly, everyone was drinking tea. To not be the odd one out, I got myself a box of Earl Grey. The delicate hint of bergamot, a tang of lemon and the sun rising-I’d like to say this was what won me over. And to a certain extent, it did. (I know that tea bags only have shavings but something about the Twinings blend always wins me over!) But it was milling on a sofa with my friends, winding down after a gruelling day chasing interviews and attending lectures at Uni, watching the steam rise languidly from my cup, that rendered tea drinking ultimately indispensable to me.
