Counting Down the Days

May 28: A Pot of Tea

It is 7am, and my dad wakes up to a silent house. It is slightly chilly, but the pregnant kind of chilly that will give way to heat in a few hours. It is quiet indoors, but the woods are lively and cheerful already. The birds are already out and about doing who knows what—clearly they have no use for sleeping.

My dad rises, yawns, and fills up a pot with water which he leaves to boil. In another pot—this one squat and ceramic—he measures out spoonfuls of loose tea. He's trying to limit his caffeine intake, so the tea he brews is hibiscus and rose-hip. When he pours it it is wine-red, and steam rises invitingly from his mug. He sits down at the kitchen table with a sigh, props open an issue of The Economist against a jar of Nutella, and sips contentedly.

Hours later, I wander downstairs in search of lunch. It is about 2:30. That morning chill from earlier has given birth to a humid and overcast afternoon. I consider making a grilled ham-and-Swiss, but the bread looks forlorn and crumbly, so I decide on some loaded scrambled eggs instead: ham, cheese, garlic, onion powder, butter—the works.

The pan has just stopped sizzling, and I am taking my plate over to the table. Just before I sit down, a pot catches my eye. It is sitting innocently on the stove, but when I pick it up I hear the slosh of liquid within. I open the lid and peer inside. The liquid is a dark purple, and swollen bits of unknown fruits float on the surface. Smiling, I put the lid back on the pot; I know exactly what it is. I grab a plastic cup and fill it with ice, then I tip the contents of the pot into the cup.

The sour, astringent taste of the tea balances out the richness of the eggs and cheese, and its icy coldness makes the heat much more bearable. It serves its purpose.