Tea is the closest thing I have to a holy sacrament in the bungalow. It’s the (hot) water of life, the thing that gets me out of my nice warm bed on a chilly morning, and the elixir that chases the fog from my brain so that I can sit down to write a coherent sentence. I have a steaming cup of tea beside me right now.
At this stage in the Great Pandemic, I can still get my tea leaves from my favourite purveyor, and I am so grateful for that.
I will carry on with my careful and measured use of my tea leaves, steeping them gently and using them twice. That’s actually the secret of being able to drink so much tea. Most of caffeine all comes out in the first steep. The second steep, paler and weaker, is just flavoured water.
When was a little girl visiting the farm house, the tea kettle was an amazing and huge cauldron to me. It was large, capable of making tea for everyone working in the barns and fields, aka ‘the lads.’ I couldn’t lift it, but Gran could heft it over the four big brown teapots and fill each with a stream of boiling water. The lads liked their tea strong. How strong? Gran said that their tea was strong enough to trot a mouse across it. That’s pretty strong.
There were plenty of daily occasions for tea. It accompanied breakfast, elevenses, lunch, a tea break in the afternoon, usually not posh enough to be a formal afternoon tea, and a final cup after dinner. Extra occasions, like someone dropping by, or a family meeting to discuss serious things, also were times for tea. It supported us through all kinds of crises. My Mum and her teapot presided over some serious neighborhood gatherings, when she would invite the calmest minds together to solve a problem, or the flightiest minds to offer calm reassurance and gentle advice. I grew up having such powerful role models of women solving problems cooperatively, seated in a circle that was anchored by the humble brown pot.
The day after my Mum’s funeral service, I remember getting the tea things together to serve breakfast tea to family members who would soon be returning home. It suddenly hit me that I had inherited the teapot, and all the responsibility that went along with it. I have a small collection of teapots, but when things are serious, I don’t take out the handmade one from Japan or the gaudy Staffordshire one that was a gift from a dear friend. It’s the humble brown one that comes out to work its Magic.
Tales from the jolly bungalow 