First off I would like to apologize for the tardiness of this week’s article. I’ve spent the last seven days as a refugee while the flooring in my house has been replaced, and it’s harder than I thought to find time to write while being displaced. I hope to return to my normal schedule of weekly articles, but until then I appreciate your patience.
For years I have often wanted to start a poem with the line “There’s pleasure found in each cup of tea”. It would be a metaphorical poem, where the simple everyday practice of making your morning beverage showcases the pleasure derived from routines, all while extolling the uniqueness of individuals as exemplified in the way they prepare their tea or coffee. But since my poetry skills are woefully inadequate and this is a newsletter, I won’t subject you to that… yet. Instead I’ll try my hand at it in prose.
Each morning I look forward to making my first cup of tea for the day. It’s the first thing I do when I wake up and a time-honored ritual that I hold sacrosanct. I begin by filling the electric kettle, flipping a switch, and waiting for the water to boil. When the water finally rumbles to a boil I let it sit for a few minutes because I don’t have a fancy variable-temperature goose necked kettle (everyone knows that black tea is best steeped in water that is 200 degrees instead of 212). Once the water has cooled slightly, I open my teabag and plop it into a cup (blue China or porcelain preferably, something delicate and slightly smaller than one would expect - there’s nothing worse than having too much mug for too little tea). I then pour the water over the bag, inhale the uniquely rich, earthy, and oh-so-faintly floral aroma of Earl Grey tea, and wait.
Five minutes precisely. No more, no less. Set a timer if your internal clock isn’t quite up to snuff. After the agonizing wait I remove the bag (an indispensable step), add honey, and a splash of whole milk. The term splash is a loosely defined measurement, and only through years of practice do I know just how much to pour. The secret is to get the tea to the right color. Too little milk and the tea mirrors the tinny ocher color of bark from a Redwood; too much milk and I’m left with a pallid, creamy, loose cup of something more deserving of the drain than my palate. It should be a deep rich brown closely resembling a Werther’s Original caramel candy. And finally, after all those steps, I let the tea rest for a final few minutes until it has cooled to a temperature that won’t burn my hand or mouth. Only then do I drink.
There’s something in all this that I find comforting. It’s not the tea, enjoyable as it is, that provides the pleasurable and familiar feeling. It’s the routine. The steady lucid sameness the morning ritual imparts. It’s the reassurance that whatever the world may throw at me, here, at least, in the morning is something sure and known that I can count on: that I will have my cup of tea made exactly how I like it.
To me, that is one of the chief beauties and pleasures of routines - they are idiosyncratic, unique to each individual, and entirely manifestations of one’s tastes and preferences. And while uniqueness and individuality is expressed through a multitude of ways, I believe it is most typified in the simple way of how one makes their tea (or coffee). In this seemingly straight-forward task the possibilities are endless: tea or coffee? Bagged or loose-leaf? Green, white, or black? With milk or without? Cold or hot? Ceylon or Indian? One lump or two? And by each choice made something new is revealed about an individual. Something valuable and worth knowing.
There’s an idea I have encountered in many songs, often ones of heartache and relational breakups, where the singer lists things about their former lover that only they know. And almost invariably one of the things mentioned is how their ex liked their coffee or tea. On the surface this appears hackneyed and cliche, but I think there is valid and useful truth in the sentiment. We interpret life through our own perception and experiences, therefore what others are thinking or feeling is unknown to us. So often this causes us to view others as just that, other. Something less than us or entirely alien and inscrutable. But even though knowing a person’s preference for a drink may seem trivial or juvenile, this knowledge serves as a small window into a better understanding of that person and their unique personality. It leads one to ask probing questions that reveal so much more about a person than would be expected from such simple knowledge. Why does someone prefer honey over sugar? How come they drink their coffee black? It may be because that’s how their dad always drank it and so they drink it that way to feel a closer connection with their father. It may be that they just enjoy the taste better - but even that tells you something. Whatever the answer, because of asking and knowing these things you are able to better comprehend another person. To more adequately see them as person like yourself instead of simply as an other. And hopefully this knowledge will enable you to serve that person in a more meaningful way.
I’ve often believed that if you can’t enjoy and appreciate the small pleasures of life you won’t be able to enjoy the larger pleasures. Similarly, I believe that if you aren’t capable of noticing and appreciating the small aspects of someone’s personality then you aren’t ready to enjoy the larger aspects. The amount of routines are as varied as there are people in the world, and that is something beautiful and worth appreciating. Each routine has something to say about the individual who adheres to it, and by knowing these simple routines we can better know and understand each other. So the next time you see someone making their drink a certain way, it might be beneficial to ask them why.
Happy Reading,
Drew