Why tea will always mean home

An ordinary ritual that means so much more

My mother is a smart cookie.

For the last 30+ years, it has become a daily ritual for my dad to deliver her a cup of tea in bed. She won’t rise without it.

My dad has never complained about this daily task. Even when she’s trialled getting up at the crack of dawn. Luckily, he can fall asleep pretty much anywhere and at anytime. Currently, he makes her tea on a portable gas stove he keeps next to his bed. He says the reason is he doesn’t want to ‘activate’ the dog by going downstairs, who would immediately demand to be taken out. I think the real reason is that he can catch a quick nap whilst the kettle was boiling…

When I was younger, I was often given the important role of delivering this tea. It was a job I took very seriously. I’d carefully pick my way up the stairs. Watching the liquid swirl in the mug intently. Pausing every time it was in danger of sloshing on the patterned carpet.

My favourite part of this job was smelling the tea. I’d get my nose as close to the mug as I could. Inhaling that comforting smell. It was intertwined with my parents. It was home.

Despite adoring the smell, it took a while to get used to the taste of tea. One of my first attempts was when I was around 10. My cousin and I were gearing up, ready to go down to our local beach on the Isle of Arran. We had some important hole digging to complete. This was a ritual with the local children. What appeared to be an old piece of farming equipment, that was protruding from the sand, was too tempting to resist. We were convinced if we dug far enough, there would be even more tantalising treasures.

On making up our picnic, my cousin requested a thermos of tea. She was older than me and I idealised her. Once when I was very young, I confided that she was my best friend. She did not say the same in return. That was a hard pill to swallow as a 5 year old.

That need to impress was still strong. So I also requested tea. With milk and one sugar, just like my mother.

Taking a well deserved break from hole digging, we perched by the stream and started to tuck into our supplies. I unscrewed the lid to my thermos and carefully poured the steaming liquid into the small cup. Blowing on it a few times, I took a tentative sip. To my disgust, it tasted nothing like how it smelled. I instantly regretted not asking for hot chocolate. I swallowed the bitter liquid anyway, discreetly pouring the rest away so my cousin wouldn’t notice my childish failure.

Tea drinking takes practise and I’ve had plenty over the years.

Its a failsafe icebreaker. A welcome caffeine hit during dawn bird surveys. A perfect accompaniment to a good book. And the ultimate comfort when life feels that little bit hard. It really is a cure all.

To me, tea will always mean family. The unnecessary number of mugs scattered over the kitchen side. Or precariously perched on hastily screwed in hooks. The packing teabags for a trip away, even if its only overnight, in case the ‘right’ tea isn’t available. With the appropriate mugs of course. There is apparently a wide difference between a tea and coffee mug. ‘That’s a good tea mug’, is a code that only my parents seem to understand.

Even now, as a brew my morning cuppa, I find myself lingering over the mug. Inhaling gentle whiffs. Closing my eyes so I can picture that admittedly tea stained patterned carpet of my childhood house. It will always be home.

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Photo by Sandie Clarke on Unsplash