I used to be one of those classy, worldly tea drinkers. I worked in a Taiwanese tea house by day alternating between a plethora of bitter and sweet tastes. I learned to appreciate the elixir elicited from charcoal purified water heated to exactly 180 degrees with the addition, and subsequent removal, of 100 dollar per pound Jasmine Pearls.
I should have paid attention to my mother, for whom Jasmine Pearls held no allure. When she came into the teashop, she would order a frothy Chai tea that developed from a powder base. Or she might order a black tea, but only if it was sweet and creamy.
A few years after the end of my employment at the Taiwanese tea house, I became more British in my tastes. Today, I drink dark Breakfast teas with a heaping spoonful of sugar and a torrent of cream. But, even that description sounds more charming that reality.
The reality is two Lipton tea bags tossed into a stained coffee mug doused in some filtered water from the tap. Next, the coffee mug gets put in a faux-wood sided microwave that is as old as I am. After everything is heated for 2:22, a time selected for the numbers' proximity to each other, I pinch the tea bags out of the scalding water and try to squeeze as much concentrated liquid out of the bags as possible, all while simultaneously cursing the pain sensors on my finger-pads and their propensity towards second degree burns. In haste, I toss the tea bags towards the garbage to sooner relieve my blistering fingers, and the last remaining moisture splatters in an arc over the cabinets, floor, and trashcan lid. Next, I grab my Tupperware container of sugar from the pantry, while pulling a spoon out of the silverware drawer. In a synchronized move, I then stir the sugar into the mug as I kick open the refrigerator door to my right. Out comes my carton of Half and Half which I pour until the tea seems to be a medium beige color.
This morning, however, I kicked open the refrigerator door and remembered that I finished the Half and Half off when I drank a necessary jolt of tea yesterday evening at 9:30. I considered walking a few blocks to the nearby drugstore CVS, but given my malnourished state, the journey seemed too great. Then I remembered the corner store, a mere block away, at which I buy Mexican pastries and thanked the benevolent powers that be.
Haphazardly throwing my hair up and pulling on a sweater, I rush out the door with ten dollars shoved in my back pocket. I pinpoint the location of the all important milk substance and narrow in on the “best by” date. It will only be good for four more
days, which is not very long. However, I'll probably drink at least
two cups a day, so I will get eight cups out of the carton. That is
not so bad. Besides, I could barely buy a coffee at Starbucks for a
dollar forty-nine. Okay, I am getting it.
My internal debate completed, I select
a pastry and pay for my breakfast. Back at home, I gingerly remove
the teabags from my now tepid cup of tea, stir in some sugar, and
eagerly top it off with my newly purchased Half and Half.
Instead of looking upon the glassy
surface of perfectly sweet and creamy tea, I am met with little clots
of cream sitting like cellulite on the back on an otherwise tan and
unblemished thigh. Disgusted, I try to pour the surface defects into
the kitchen sink, but the floaters are wily and refuse to obey.
Before I know it, I have emptied the entire cup into the sink in what
can only be described as an act of rash stupidity.
Reflecting on the obvious shortcomings
of my technique, I decide to make another cup of tea, but this time,
if there are any clots of cream, I will skim them off with a spoon.
Success will be mine.
