There's nothing that a cuppa can't solve
It’s Sunday evening. I’ve sunk into the couch while resting, icing, compressing and elevating my ankle that I sprained while walking my dog and feeling sorry for myself.
My standard weekend routine typically revolves around playing with the dog, yoga and gym so a sprained ankle, which has happened now for the third time, is something I’m a bit over to say the least and interrupts my flow.
On a side note, I love how I can wear sky high heels, have a few drinks and spend the whole night dancing and be fine, but the moment I put on trainers and walk on flat ground, can cause myself an injury. But that’s another story and I digress.
So I’m lazing around without much to do, but with my hands wrapped around a warm mug of tea and things just start to feel better. The rich aroma of the tea just on its own seems to have some sort of therapeutic effect. The steam curls up into loose, free flowing tendrils bringing the earthy yet sweet aroma of the tea leaves into the depths of the olfactory receptors.
Ahhh. It’s just so darn soothing and good.
For me, it’s the whole ritual of tea that contributes to this feeling. Tea (both making and drinking) is a process and a sensory experience. Every cup is made with loving care to suit your tastes, and if it isn’t done the way you like it (i.e. the dunk dunk, and drown with milk method, although some people actually do like this), it can ruin your cuppa and take away that oh so good feeling.
The first part of the process is boiling the water. I love the sound of the kettle as it boils and bubbles, and that click when the water is ready. The boiling water is then carefully poured into my mug and the tea bag starts to slowly add swirls of silky brown goodness into the water until it eventually takes over. I add a teaspoon of raw sugar with a few quick stirs, and then leave it to brew. I occasionally dunk the tea bag a few more times for flavour, although I actually don’t actually know whether that does anything. Then I add a dash of milk so the tea becomes the colour of my biracial skin.
That’s my tea and it hits the spot. But, generally when I make tea, I’m also making a number of cups for people who all like it different ways.
To avoid confusion, I line up the mugs up in order of the cup owners age, just so there’s no tea mix ups or dramas. Dad’s is first, in his I heart New York Cup. He takes some hot water in the mug first to warm it up. He takes his tea with milk, no sugar. Mum’s is a slightly larger mug than all the others. It’s pink with delicate flowers. She takes it black. Then I have my Madonna or Bold and the Beautiful mug, depending on my mood. I take milk and sugar. Rebecca has her “I woke up like this” mug (#flawless) and just milk. If Nat and Andrew are there, they get whatever mug is left. She’s decaf English breakfast or a herbal tea. He’s milk and two sugars.
Tea time is a tradition in my family. I have many fond memories of my family all coming together for afternoon tea and spending at time, sometimes even hours drinking tea and just chatting, often about meaningless, yet hilarious things with my sisters or enjoying a good gossip.
And while today I’m just on my own, having the perfect cuppa allows you to just relax and enjoy. The warmth of the ceramic mug against your skin. The way the tea travels down the throat and seems to light up the rest of the body, down to the toes just makes everything infinitely better.
And then I actually look at my toes and remember that my ankle is the size of a cricket ball.
