Teatime

Maybe it’s all the Edith Wharton and Henry James I’ve been reading (even though they’re both Americans), or perhaps it’s the latent influence of last year’s trip to India (now a year ago!) but, of late, I’ve been enjoying a cup of tea in the afternoon—at teatime, more or less, if truth be told (and why shouldn’t it; this is hardly a thing about which to dissemble.)

Not to worry: I haven’t given up coffee (and, indeed, the idea of starting my day with boiling watre poured over leaves instead of grounds makes me shiver just to consider it) but I am willing to admit that I’ve come to appreciate the charm of a nice cuppa, especially if it’s accompanied by a book and a nap on the couch.

And fear not: I’m not at all inclined to start making pots of tea, or using loose leaves, or, heaven forfend, to start drinking Japanese green tea from ceramic bowls while wearing a kimono.

Nope, it’s Earl Grey in a bag, left to steep for no particular specified amount of time, and then augmented with Half and Half (or milk) and plenty of sugar. Basically, I’m drinking a hot, fatty Red Bull made from plants instead of plastic or petroleum or whatever it is that stuff is fabricated from.

I suppose this could be construed as another one of those changes coming with age; historically, if I wanted a little early evening lift, I’d have just brewed another pot of coffee, but the couple times I’ve done that of late, I’ve found myself lying abed at two or three in the morning over-planning the upcoming day.

So, here I am, having my afternoon tea, enjoying it even in the absence of sweet little cakes and cucumber sandwiches with their crusts cut off.

But maybe that’s what comes next. Who knows? Maybe I’ll find myself branching out to Chai, or Darjeeling or English Breakfast, or even Lapsang Souchong.