Falling in Love
Tara Avery
Nine years ago I fell in love.
This might surprise my boyfriend of ten years—now husband of four months—but he needn’t worry. I didn’t fall in love with a man (or a woman, even!) – I fell in love with tea. Yes, the beverage.
Nineteen years old and living away from home for the first time, in a single room in one of the cellblock hallways of my undergrad residence at the University of British Columbia, I met the Tea Goddess.
The Goddess was a latecomer to our particular cellblock. Someone transferred out after the first month or two, and she moved in. We became friends right away – or at least as soon as the first Sunday night new episode of The X-Files came around and she joined the crowd clamoring for space in front of the communal television set.
Not long after this friendship was born, the Goddess invited me to her room for tea.
Tea? I thought. Really? But out loud I said, “Sure, sounds great.”
As a beverage, I’d never really been able to get behind tea. I liked the idea of it, the concept, the nice mug of something warm. I had once flirted with the idea of becoming a tea lover because Captain Picard always ordered his “Earl Grey, hot,” with such confidence. In the flush of young adult obsession with Star Trek: The Next Generation I had tried desperately, but without much success, to develop a taste. If it was good enough for Jean-Luc, it was good enough for me, surely! And yet, alas, it was not to be.
I have since learned bergamot is not for everyone.
Which brings us back to the Goddess. She’d already begun the process of the tea by the time I arrived in her little 108sq foot paradise hung with fairy lights and vintage prints. Her room looked more cozy and lived-in after only a week or two than mine did after several months of habitation.
“Milk and sugar?” she asked.
I nodded dumbly. I had no idea if I wanted milk and sugar! She moved like a priest preparing sacrament, deliberately, each step in a certain order. Milk, sugar, cookies on a plate. Finally, she poured the golden liquid from pot into cup. A gentle stir and the cup and saucer were pressed into my waiting hands. For the first minute I was sure I was going to break the porcelain; I’m not certain I’d ever held anything so delicate. I raised the cup to my lips, taking my cue from the Goddess.
Heaven. A perfect balance of sweetness and creaminess and smoothness! Not a hint of the bitterness I remembered from my early attempts at Earl Grey. I sipped again, and the second sip was just as good as the first.
Eyes wide, cup trembling almost audibly on its saucer, I managed to say, “This is really good.”
“Oh yeah? Try it with a cookie!”
I have never looked back. Over the years I have learned a great deal about tea, about the process of making it, of steeping it, of learning the right measurements per cup or per pot. I have tried tea with milk, honey, sugar. I’ve also tried it with cream, condensed milk, artificial sweetener – but I don’t recommend them! I’ve worked in a tea shop. I have drunk tea in England (sublime) and Thailand; in the comfort of tea shops and the living rooms of friends. I have let tea comfort me when sad, warm me when cold, cheer me when low. Tea has helped start new friendships and solidify older ones.
In “The Classic of Tea” Lu Yu says, “Each tea hour must become a masterpiece to serve as a distillation of all tea hours, as if it were the first and no other to follow. And so the act of tea must be attended by beauty.” Better advice I could not give. Whether it’s a perfect cup of orange pekoe with milk and sugar, like the one the Tea Goddess once made for me, a delicate white or green scented with real jasmine, or, like Captain Picard, simply Earl Grey, hot (with or without lemon!) each sip of tea is a reflection, a chance for meditation or introspection or simply enjoying a perfect moment. Tea is not to be guzzled on the run, or gulped back in a desperate shot, oh no. Buy yourself a nice pot, big enough to share with friends, and at least one beautiful cup. Use milk, preferably not skimmed, and real sugar or honey. Treat yourself to a quality tea, in loose leaves, and then don’t over-steep them! Most importantly, make your tea with love. Don’t rush.
If at all possible, share a cup with a friend. Maybe even put some cookies on a plate.
You might help someone fall in love.
You might fall in love yourself.
Nine years ago I fell in love. Every day, every cup, I think I fall in love a little more.
Anyone fancy a cuppa?