This post is for Mely, who was the first and only person to comment on my Facebook status that said: “First person to comment on this gets to pick the next topic for my blog.” She picked the topic, and that topic is tea.
The letter T is one of 26 letters in the English language alphabet. My favorite phrase beginning with T is “table wine,” because it can make a $6 bottle of Whole Foods wine seem elegant: “This 365 brand merlot will accompany our hamburgers as our table wine this evening.”
T may be difficult for some people to handle. Those with a stutter may stumble across the hard sound this consonant makes as it is produced by the action of both your teeth and tongue. However, since The King’s Speech is the greatest thing since sliced bread and stutterers are emerging from their hovels to speak to the world once more, although T is difficult for them to say, they now do it proudly. Much to my pleasure.
Whenever someone stutters I think of “You Ain’t Seen Nothing Yet” by Bachman Turner Overdrive. And please visit that link. The suit Randy Bachman is wearing is insanely amazing. It makes me think of unicorns jumping through fountains of liquid gold, glittering in the sunlight with the tips of their horns adorned with juniper berries. Also, you can totally tell that he’s lip syncing.
The letter T is also the last letter in the word “cat.” When I think of cats, I think of this amazing video, in which a defenseless kitty is rescued from the clutches of an evil … window.
Seriously though, I know Mely is reading this, rolling her eyes and waiting for something about tea, that leafy substance we all know and love so much.
Let me just say this: I love a good cup of blueberry green tea. It’s one of my favorite things in the world, especially when I’m sick, and especially with some locally-harvested blackberry honey.
But I didn’t always love tea. I really only developed a great relationship with my buddy tea in the last few years. Before that, one experience almost ruined the entire thing. That would be the first time I tried to make tea by myself, and that would include exploding tea bags.
(See? You knew you stuck around for a really great reason.)
I was in fifth grade, and I got home before everyone else so I decided to watch some TV and finish my homework early. As I was working on my social studies (yes, I remember which subject it was), it occurred to me that I was very thirsty. I thought about all of the times I went over to my mom’s best friend’s house after school, and how she would make this amazing sweet tea.
After much contemplation, I set out to make myself a pitcher of sweet tea. Here are the errors I made:
1) I used the biggest pot I could find, which my mom usually only used for spaghetti.
2) I put the tea bags in the pan before I even turned on the heat.
3) I used about 15 tea bags.
I set it all on the stove, walked away and hoped for the best. From what I had seen Donna do, the tea was usually ready when it reached a boil. Then she would pour it into a pitcher and let it steep for a while, then remove the bags and add the sugar and lemon. I couldn’t find a big enough pitcher, so I took out the second largest pan we owned, not realizing at the time that it definitely was not large enough for the quantity of water in the spaghetti pot.
I went back to my work. Probably about five minutes later I heard something along the lines of POP! SPLAAAT! I looked out toward the kitchen, but figured it was just the natural sounds of water boiling (I have never been especially inclined towards the culinary arts). Deeming the sounds unworthy of my attention, I went back to work.
But it happened again. And again. Then a third time, all in rapid succession. I ran out to the kitchen and found four tea bags in the middle of the tile floor, exploded like tiny Lipton bombs, their innards scattered.
Yes, those are tiny airplace wings on the tea bags. Thank you for asking.
Panic began to set in. Not two weeks prior, I had been home alone when a crock pot caught on fire. I thought for sure that if my parents found out about the tea bag explosions, they would never leave me alone by myself ever again.
I decided it was time for a cover up. First things first, I had to turn off the stove. As I began to approach, a tea bag popped out of the pot, slammed against the oven’s hood and ricocheted into the living room.
I had to move fast.
I shut off the stove, slipped my hands into some pot holders, took the pot over to the sink and poured the entire mess down the drain. I remember the steam hitting my face and making me sweat like the greasy Italian I am.
What did I do with all the tea bags? Well, the ones that exploded were cleaned up and thrown away. The rest were laying in the sink, so I did what any normal kid would: I used a wooden spoon to force them down the garbage disposal, figuring that five tea bags in the garbage looked a whole lot better than fifteen.
So that was my first experience trying to make tea. I still get a little nervous when I’m about to make a pot of tea. One cup and I’m fine, but when I go to make a whole pot I get shaky and start snapping at people, saying things like, “Oh, you think you’re so great at making tea? Well I can make tea bags fly! What do you think about that, huh?”
By the way Mom, I’m sorry you had to find out like this. This is my dead parrot story. This is my palm tree.