My grandmother floated the Lipton tea bag in the Corning Ware mug, pushed it down with her spoon into the boiling water. The hum of her voice harmonized with my mother’s.
A teaspoon of sugar, a splash of milk.
They lifted their tea bags, squeezed the excess tea against the spoon. They set aside the bags for use tomorrow. A word or two emerged from the melody: the name of a relative or a
thought about the community drifting with the steam from the tea. Nothing world-changing. Just a daily ritual.
Sometimes I’d stay in the kitchen with them. Other times, my sister and I would play with my mom’s old dolls, laying out their clothes on the worn orange carpet.
My grandmother died years ago, and my mother lives three hours away from me. But every afternoon, one calls the other.
“Tea time?”
In our respective homes, we pour water into the kettle, set it on the stove, wait. I measure out tea leaves into my diffuser. My mother usually chooses a chai blend. A teaspoon of sugar, or perhaps honey, a splash of milk. We push our tea with our spoons into the boiling water and chat about a relative or our communities.
On special occasions, she’s staying at my house, or I’m at hers, and we enjoy our tea time relaxed at the kitchen table, hearing the clink of each other’s mug against the glass top.
A silence in the noise of everyday life, a soothing whisper threaded through the roar. Just a daily ritual that changes our lives in bits and pieces.
This post joins a myriad of others detailing the food of their lives, hosted by Ann Kroeker. I couldn’t resist joining this week as the theme is tea. Read more entries here.
