No Nog? Now What?

 

A new year sits on the horizon. Only a few days remain in 2023, which, for me, has been a year of adapting to what has changed rather than experiencing actual change. Of course change has happened in the past twelve months; life is always in some sort of flux, just not always as drastically as it’s been since 2020. That darned corona virus threw everything and everyone for a loop, but it can’t be blamed for everything that happened this year.

Well, maybe it can. If not for the pandemic, my work life would still be fulltime at the office, where my colleagues would also be present all day every day (and less work would be getting done!) But would Starbucks have kept eggnog lattes on their holiday drinks menu if COVID hadn’t happened?

Can’t say.

What I can say, however, is in the Before Time, a Bucky’s steamed eggnog was better than anyone else’s. The ratio of nog to milk was always perfect, the foam always thick, creamy and demanding of a spoon. I’d down at least one a week back then ... and but now, it’s impossible even if I still worked in town five days a week. Eggnog anything is no longer listed among their holiday drinks.

One thing that has not changed is my compulsion to lose it when I can’t have what I want because they’re out of a vital ingredient. I’m not referring to eggnog here – I took that one in stride, likely because they took it off the menu during the lean winter of lockdown. To give Bucky’s masterminds credit, they came up with a dandy if not preferable replacement in the form of a Gingerbread Oat Chai Latte. Hot or iced, when ordered half-sweet, oh my gawd, it’s good. Even Ter likes them, and she’s not inclined to “handcrafted beverages” at the best of times.

So we happily scheduled a stop at Bucky’s to celebrate our final Christmas shopping trip for the year. I cheerfully placed the order: “Two grande gingerbread oat chai lattes, please, half-sweet.”

The clerk at the counter hesitated, then regretfully advised us that “We’re out of gingerbread syrup.”

For anyone who doesn’t already know, many years ago, I went postal on a David’s Tea clerk who innocently told me that Persian Apple (my favourite at the time) was a limited edition and no longer available. My reaction almost immediately assumed legendary status thanks to my then-office roomie, who witnessed the scene and promptly told everyone at work how badly I’d behaved. Since then, anyone who’s with me is instantly traumatized when I am faced with similar information, whether or not I react with the same vehemence. I try not to, being mindful that it’s not the clerk’s fault and no one deserves berating over a First World trifle, but the legend lives on ...

On this occasion, I think I held it together pretty well. Also thanks to the pandemic, “pivoting” has become a thing, and I’m quicker than some on the spur of the moment. Ter is more easily flustered these days, and it took her completely aback. Ergo, our drinks order went from a straightforward “two of the same” to one half-sweet cinnamon dolce oat chai latter and a decaf Americano with cream and one raw sugar, which they were also out of (due to a strike at the sugar processing plant), so make that a shot of brown sugar syrup instead. We ran through it a few times for the clerk’s benefit – awesome as she was, she was determined to get it right – yet in the end, I couldn’t resist.

“You know,” I said to her, “this wouldn’t be so confusing if you hadn’t run out of gingerbread syrup.”

Memory Almost Full

 

I now take Theracurmin for my bones. It’s a derivative of turmeric that’s lauded as a natural anti-inflammatory and so far, I’m a fan. My pain has reduced to almost nothing and I’ve been able to regain much of the mobility I feared I’d lost. It’s like the magic pill everyone hopes will be prescribed, and while it’s not quite that magical (I still have to avoid known inflammatory foods etc.), it’s the closest I’ve ever come to finding it.

A few weeks after I’d started taking it, Ter saw an ad for it in a magazine. “Hey,” she said, scanning list of the purported benefits, “not only is it an anti-inflammatory, it helps with memory and cognitive function, too!”

Bonus! I thought.

Later that week, I booked a date with my office tea buddy for my day in town. We put it in stone via meeting invites so the time is blocked in our calendars. I had another meeting scheduled ahead of our appointed time, so I sent her an instant message to say I was stuck in a call and would IM her when I was done. She sent back a thumbs up, and my meeting proceeded as planned.

It finished a few minutes later than scheduled. I hung up the phone and glanced at Treena’s status, which is indicated by the colour of a dot next to her name in the Skype for Business window. If it’s green, she’s available. If it’s red, it means she’s busy, in a call, or in a meeting. Hover your cursor over the dot and the system tells you which of the three applies.

Well, Treena’s dot was red. In a meeting. Huh. Must have come up suddenly (it does, sometimes).

I sent her an IM: “Zap me when you’re ready to go.”

She wrote back immediately: “I’m heading for the stairs!”

Only then did I realize her dot was red because she was in a meeting—with me!

Apparently, the Theracurmin has yet to kick in on my memory and cognitive function ...

The Importance of Tea XIII

 “Days Gone Chai”

You may or may not remember that in June of 2015, after extensive research at a number of outlets, I had determined that my favourite chai tea was steeped at a coffee place. Blenz had not only bettered franchise outlets like Starbucks and David’s, but had surpassed local tea giants Silk Road and Murchie’s for the best chai in town (in my opinion). Since that summer, David’s Tea has introduced their Organic Chai, which knocked their Saigon Chai out of the park but wasn’t able—despite a multitude of online orders in the past year—to surpass the Blenz blend as my No. 1 favourite. On my weekly day at the office, I am guaranteed to visit my regular pre-COVID haunt for a mid-morning cuppa, where the barista now adds the 3 raw sugars and substantial splash of cream I used to add myself.

In the halcyon days of 2019, when I occasionally ordered an Earl Grey with lavender syrup, owner/manager Jonathan would razz me whenever I ordered a chai. “With lavender?” he’d ask, dimpling impishly while I scowled at his impudence.

Things changed, of course. In a pandemic world where nothing is fun anymore, the Sussex shop managed to stay open through lockdowns and restrictions. Some staff had to be let go, and while the core crew remained, Jonathan took the afternoon shift. I chai in the morning, so I didn’t see him for ages.

My working from home also meant no more daily Mumbai chai. I don’t know how I coped to begin with, though the bulk of my online David’s organic orders occurred in those first few months. As the siege wore on, I realized I’d have to get a home supply of Mumbai, so I brought an empty tea tin to my next in-the-office day and asked for a hundred grams. That wasn’t quite enough to sustain me, apparently, as I brought in a second tin the following week, rotating through by refilling an empty when its twin reached the halfway mark.

Fast forward to March 2021. I am now coming to the office twice a week and some of the old gang have returned to Blenz—happy reunions on both sides of the counter. I stop in with my office buddy for coffee one rare afternoon and who do I see working the steamer but Jonathan! He’s wearing a mask, but I know he’s smirking when he asks if I’ve ordered a(nother) Mumbai chai. He adds that he orders twice as much of it since I’ve started buying it by the tin.

“No,” I reply, “but since you mention it, I’ve been thinking I need a whole bag of the loose stuff for home. What do you think?”

He shrugs. “An order came in this morning. I’m loaded.”

“Great!” I declare. “How much do you want for 500 grams?”

He’s so good to me. We settle on a price (reduced) and he throws in a box of compostable tea bags. My office buddy is mildly stunned by the whole transaction, but Ter isn’t fazed at all when I proudly produce the bag from my tote at the end of the day.

I’m halfway convinced they put crack in the mix, but ... oh well!

Kettle Me This

Green tea is steeped at a lower heat than black tea, and since I drink a lot of green, my next kettle will have a variable temperature feature. There’s one at work , and if you want an endurance test for small appliances, a staff of eighty-plus will surely provide it. The office kettle is boiling—or close to it—from seven-thirty a.m. to five p.m. every weekday, and I don’t remember when it arrived. It’s also worth noting that no “off the rack” kettle is designed for that sort of heavy duty use. We’ve burned through a few in my time (one day I’ll tell you about the nifty “disco” model that last three days before it went back to the store), and this one has been operating for years.

So when our home kettle threatened to blow up some weeks ago, I told Ter I’d prefer one with a variable temperature feature. Naturally, I couldn’t remember the brand of the office version, but of the few options available on the Canadian Tire website, the Oster model looked almost exactly the same. And it was on sale—at 50% off the regular price! Score!

Oh, but then I noticed the online reviews. Only one post recommended the kettle as worth the effort; a handful of others complained bitterly about leaks and shorts and generally poor performance. Curses.

I researched a few other options, but no real luck. Either the price was ridiculous compared to “212 degrees only” kettles, or the reviews warned against investing in any of them. I conceded to the thriftier option: if we had to buy a replacement, I’d settle for a remake of our Black and Decker, which has been stellar from the first go. In fact, I think it might be as old as the office kettle, if not similarly overworked.

No matter. Our kettle wasn’t crapping out; we only thought it was. Having dodged the leaky base/crappy performance Oster bullet, I returned to work the following Monday and started my morning routine: fill up the kettle, set it to 170 degrees and switch it on to heat while I empty the drainer and zoom to my office for my mug and a scoop of Japanese sencha.

Guess what? The superstar much abused overused and years old office kettle is an Oster with an variable temperature feature.

*sigh*

Seen Through a Coffee Shop Window

not my view, but a reasonable facsimile

I took myself down to the local coffee shop one workday last week, fully intending on drafting this weekend’s blog post. I had no idea what my subject would be. Life of late has been more about living and less about musing—you might say I’m gathering material for future posts—but I reckoned that, surely, inspiration would strike once I assumed the position.

Armed with a Mumbai chai, I took a seat in the window, opened my book, uncapped my coloured Sharpie ... and nothing came. Nada. Zip, zero, zilch. The blank page leered up at me, daring me to mar its pristine whiteness with my purple genius. I stared back, immobilized, though not with fear. My mind was merely as blank as the page in front of me.

My Zen homework has taught me not to panic at a writer’s block. Sometimes it’s just not meant to happen. On another day, my genius will blaze brighter than the halogen high beams on an Audi. Just not today.

Sigh.

Rather than forcing the matter, I decided simply to enjoy my tea and watch the street action through the window. I kept the book open, though the cap went back on my pen. My cup was almost empty when I noticed something so typically incongruous of a First World society that I had to write it down: a white Porsche Cayenne pausing at a crosswalk while a homeless man pushed a shopping cart laden with all his worldly goods in front of it. Wealth and poverty in a single, poignant image. I wished I’d had my camera with me.

Then I realized I’d had a ton of impressions in the past half hour; seen countless vignettes worthy of note (to me, anyway):

A lapdog wearing a raincoat.

Tourists carrying shopping bags.

An older couple strolling arm in arm.

A sleek and shiny Tesla—twice!

The bus ballet (they really do a dance, merging around and into traffic from the stop outside 

the window).

A quartet of orange umbrellas bobbing in a cluster along the far sidewalk. They stood out so bright and cheerful in the grey drizzle, I christened them “orange blossoms”.

The faces on passersby: grim, worried, anxious, vacant, lots of frowns and not many smiles. Sad.

A toddler pushing a stroller while his mother steered him from behind, and the tiny hand lolling from the stroller itself as the occupant enjoyed the ride.

A hipster girl wearing a backpack as big as she was, pausing to read the “we’re hiring” sign in the coffee shop window.

Soft jazz on the shop’s sound system, followed by a cool cover of Roxy’s “Love Is The Drug”, then something by Florence and the Machine (her voice is so distinctive).

The store manager came by to tidy the tables behind me. “On your own today?”

“Just hanging out,” I replied.

“Killing time?”

“Nah, I was doing that in the office.”

He laughed. I said I’d see him tomorrow, then I packed up my stuff and went back to work.

It might not be genius, but I got my post after all.

The Importance of Tea XII

“Extremitea”

1000 grams!

My tea fairy, Treena, gave me a sample of Davidson’s Organic Spiced Peach for my birthday. It’s one of the best peachy teas ever, and I promptly wondered if we can get it online?

Fast forward a few weeks. Treena emails to advise that she’s aiming for free shipping on something and a pound of Spiced Peach will push her total past the eligible amount. Did I want to chip in for half?

Naturally, I agreed (it really is delicious).

David’s “Tea of the Month” is Ginger Beer – a herbal infusion that demanded I stock two hundred grams pronto, which of course I did. At the same time, I topped up my tin of Mumbai Chai from Blenz. All that remains is to purloin a package of Murchie’s seasonal Snowflake, and I’m all set for winter sipping.

Once the Spiced Peach arrived, I happily informed Treena that my cupboard is stuffed to the gunwales and no new tea purchases will be made for the rest of the calendar year. She gave me the knowing sidelong look and said something about, “Yeah, until the Christmas flavours come out.”

I remain steadfast in my resolve. Murchie’s Snowflake won’t be out for another few weeks, but once I’ve bought my stash of that, I mean it, I’m done. After all, I have half a pound of Spiced Peach to plough through; do I need more tea???

*sigh*

My other tea buddy, Julie, roped me into visiting David’s so she could try their Chai and Mighty. I was happy to tag along, with absolutely no intention of buying anything beyond a cup to go. I bypassed the Halloween display and went straight for the counter. Julie, however, paused to peruse the merchandise. I’m chatting with the counter staff when she cries, “Ruthie! Stormy Night is back!”

I pivot so fast that my ears buzz. “What?”

“Oh, yeah,” says the store manager, “it’s back for Halloween, but only in the tombstone packaging. What you see there is all we have.”

Stormy Night is one of my favourites; I pitched a fit when they discontinued it and proceeded now to rant a reminder of my displeasure before I snatched up a tombstone. “Now you have one less,” I declared. “Chocolate Macaroon, by the way, is a poor replacement.”

I can order fifty grams of Stormy Night from their website for $8.50. Fifty grams in a cardboard tombstone cost me twice that much in store. And I didn’t care. I bought it anyway.

Now that’s scary.

The Importance of Tea XI

“Chai One On”

My favourite after-school snack is a cup of black tea and one of Ter’s killer GF “not just for Christmas anymore” shortbread cookies. The silky vanilla/almond-scented cookie is the perfect match for a sweet, spicy, creamy chai. I carry my treat into the Ocean Room to cast off the workday args and await my roomie’s arrival—it’s often the best time of my day.

No chai, however, is created equal. I ordered my first at Starbucks fifteen years ago and was promptly hooked. Their brand was Tazo, which became my go-to until proper tea shops started popping up all over town. I have since tried a handful of others, both bulk and bagged: Stash, Mighty Leaf, and Numi in the boxed brand department, loose varieties from David’s, Teavana, Murchie’s … and the winner is: the Mumbai Chai at Blenz.

For the uninitiated, Blenz is Canada’s answer to Starbucks and their focus is coffee. They do, however, feature ten or twelve varieties of tea for the non-coffee-drinker. I’ve tried most of them. White Peony was my standard until I went dairy-free and gave up the occasional chai latte. Then I got bored and tried the black chai tea plain, no latte; okay, with cream and two sugars. Now I’m hooked. My wee sister is hooked. My work pal Julie is hooked (and happy—it only costs $3.10 per cup). The kid behind the counter now hesitates before starting my order, though I think he’s figuring out that white peony is morning and chai is afternoon.

My at-home/after-school blend is David’s “Saigon Chai”, the former standard which Mumbai has knocked out of the park. Alas, Blenz doesn’t sell loose tea. Or they didn’t. I recently got an email announcing that their tea blends are now available for bulk purchase, so off I went to the shop to see if our local franchise owner was complying with this particular corporate policy (he guards his customers against what he considers the sillier head office orders, which is why everyone loves him).

As it happened, I was the only customer in the shop, so I had time to ask him about it. He gave me rebellious brown eyes and said, “I’m not advertising the loose tea. It’s hideously expensive, so I can’t in good conscience sell it to you.”

“Define ‘hideously expensive’,” I said. He and I had talked years earlier about the white peony, but I never took him up on his offer to work something out if I really wanted some for home.

He punched the flavour up on the computer and frowned. “$12.95 for a hundred grams.”

I burst out laughing. “You think that’s hideously expensive?”

“Isn’t it?”

“Not if you’re a tea snob,” I replied. “I spend $18.00 for fifty grams of green tea at Teavana!”

Poor guy, I think he was horrified enough to call an intervention, but once I assured him that pricier chais have fallen far short of the Mumbai, he acquiesced. “I’ll have to get some bags in,” he fretted.

“Don’t worry,” I said, “I have a tin at home. I’ll bring it in empty and you can fill ’er up.”

Problem is, I’m still working on 100 gms of “Saigon Chai” and my practice is to finish what I have before buying more. It may be my imagination, but there’s too much cardamom in this batch. It really isn’t very enjoyable …

The Importance of Tea X

“Spiritualitea”

It’s more than just a cup of tea. It’s an experience.

I have a standing date with my work pal, Julie. On Wednesday, we go for tea. Our favourite haunt is “The Red Couch”, otherwise known as the Teavana shop on Fort Street, where we have become somewhat infamous with the staff behind the counter. I hope we are favourites rather than dreaded nutbars, but they are trained to be welcoming so I may never know.

They also allow us to pay on our way out, which is where this story starts.

Unless one is a tea snob, one cannot comprehend the willingness to spend five dollars on a cup of tea. The price is based on how rare or exotic the tea is, white being the priciest, pure green being next, followed in descending order by flavoured green, black and herbal. So when Julie lost her mind over the cost of the white she had just downed, the ensuing discussion resulted in me losing mine. “You enjoyed that tea,” I scolded. “I watched you.”

“I’d have enjoyed it more if it was $3.99 instead of $5!” she retorted.

The twist here is that the staff were on her side. One admitted that their prices are hefty, but the better deal is to buy it loose and brew it at home, where even the costliest pearls work out to a dollar per cup. Her partner behind the bench mused that the in-house brew should be two bucks across the board. I listened to this for a awhile, then broke in.

“You guys are missing the point,” I said. “This is more than a cup of tea. This is an experience. Your tea is brewed for you—thank you, ladies—while we hang out on the comfy couch in this tranquil shop and get a much-needed respite from the office. It’s not just the tea. It’s the whole package. See?”

I’m unsure that my point was received on all fronts, but I think the staff felt marginally better. Julie is a riot—I love her dearly—who begrudges nothing to no one and will learn from her five dollar error in judgment rather than be bitter about a perceived rip-off. When we next hit the Couch, she’ll opt for the three dollar brew and enjoy the same experience. ’Cause that’s what tea all about, Charlie Brown. The experience.

SCOBY-Doo

I may not be mother to mortal children, but I seem to have a knack for breeding SCOBYs.

How hard can it be to breed spludges of yeast and bacteria, you ask? Not very, I admit. And the more batches of kombucha I brew, the easier it gets. I’m presently fermenting my nth batch (truly, I’ve lost count), and the mass I received from my older sister at Christmas never dreamed he’d have to work so hard.

I was a nervous novice and emailed my sister in a mild panic after three days: He’s just lying at the bottom of the jar. Is he okay??? She wrote back, They do that sometimes. I’m sure he’s fine. And on the fifth day, he rose. I checked the jar in the morning and he had floated onto one side, almost as if trying to himself over and getting stuck halfway. Okay, at least he’s alive. And when I peeled back the cheesecloth to test the brew on day seven, the mouth of the jar was sealed by a white film disconcertingly reminiscent of the white of an eye. Doo was floating just beneath it. In fact, he was tethered to it like the mothership spooling line to a satellite. Yuk.

It’s not unusual, apparently, for baby SCOBYs to develop in the same jar.

Batch number two proceeded the same way. This time I was hoping for a baby, because my tea buddy Treena wanted to try brewing her own kombucha, but if there was a baby, it was glommed to the original when bottling time arrived and I wound up (okay, Ter wound up) carving off a chunk of the whole thing. That batch was made with black tea, so the SCOBY looked like he’d been to a tanning salon. Double yuk.

A few brews later, another buddy expressed an interest in obtaining a baby. I had a batch planned for the weekend and promised her any offspring. From the get-go, SCOBY-Doo stayed near the top of the jar, but in the end proved as fertile as ever, producing a sturdy white sclera. To ensure that it was up to the task, I gave Doo a rest and plunked the babe into a fresh batch of sugared green tea.

It sank to the bottom of the jar and stayed there for twelve full days.

Peeling back the cheesecloth on day fourteen, I was puzzled by the papery thin film that greeted me. “Wasn’t it thicker than this?” I asked Ter, who has SCOBY-handling duty and is responsible for bathing and trimming the Doo between batches.

“I think it’s actually at the bottom,” she replied.

“You mean it never moved?” I peered through the glass at the fog I had perceived as just that: the milky fog that sometimes sinks like sediment on the floor of the jar. Remaining unconvinced, I strained the tea and Ter was proven right: baby-Doo had never left the floor!

The next day I told my friend the story and added, “Your SCOBY is a lazy bum.”

She was ecstatic. “You mean he made a baby to do the work? That’s my kind of SCOBY!”

For the record, she has a child.

Elevenses

It’s the best time of the morning. Midway between breakfast and lunch is the hallowed moment when fresh tea is brewed and some form of sustenance is consumed. It’s been in sync with our biological rhythm for ages. It goes by many names. My favourite figures in the Paddington Bear stories by Michael Bond:

Elevenses.

Every day, Paddington visits the old guy down the road for hot chocolate and a sticky bun. In my world, it’s tea and a muffin or a slice of Ter’s killer ginger/pumpkin/date loaf. At work I often have company for it, but on days off, it’s just me and my tea tumbler. It’s also proof that working straight through can be detrimental to the project; as a writer, I have found that getting away from the computer for a few minutes often unravels the knots in a scene. Stalled dialogue almost always gets traction the instant I leave, as if the characters are waiting for me to go away so they can continue without my interference.

I could “do coffee” for a living. I spent a lot of time hanging out in cafés with artists, poets and musicians during a previous life, and the love of socializing over hot milky drinks and pastries has remained with me. My workweek is populated by pals with whom I take such breaks, usually in the afternoon as I tend to pound through the morning without pause. Elevenses seems specifically reserved for downtime or a writing day.

Which reminds me … it’s time for a break.

Watchin’ the World Go By

Sipping chai tea and listening to Tears for Fears at the local coffee house, I watch the Douglas Street buses performing their cumbersome ballet. The “walk” sign at the intersection flashes to the beat of Everybody Wants to Rule the World. People come and go—skirts and suits from the office tower across the courtyard, stopping for coffee to get them through another afternoon of meetings; students on spring break, dropping in for iced hot chocolate with extra whipped cream; a busker juggling his trumpet case with a cup of dark roast. It’s supposed to be raining but the sun has broken through to spill across the page as I scribble the imagery in bright green ink. Upstairs, a pile of year-end panic awaits my return, but now it’s Woman in Chains and Roland Orzabal’s voice is as deep and rich as the house coffee and I cannot tear myself away. Even the guys behind the counter are humming along with the melody.

It’s quiet in here but steady outside. No tourists yet (well, maybe one or two), so the city belongs to the locals for a few more weeks.

I want to ask why they’re playing one of my favourite 80’s bands on a day when I need no incentive to dawdle. Instead, I’ll stay to hear what song is next, then I’ll go back to work.

Maybe.

Girl Friday

the view from my table

The problem, if it can be called a problem, with a day off is that my mind races frantically to jam as much pleasurable activity as possible into a finite number of hours. I ask Ter to drop me at the Moka House for tea and a blog entry, then I panic because I should be doing the bi-weekly dusting.

I can do that when I get home, of course, but that cuts into my writing time. And what about the “spa bath” I owe myself? Or baking the applesauce muffins I’ve been craving? And how many episodes of Ashes to Ashes can I manage before the sun breaks through to create a golden photo op in the garden? I want to read, too, being nearly done with Anne Rice’s latest …

It helps that, while I debated bringing the Canon on my morning tea/blog flânerie, Ter told me point-blank to “slow down, you’re trying to do too much.” It helps, too, that they’re playing Ella Fitzgerald at the coffee house; I pause to listen whenever I hear her smooth, buttery voice. And I am reminded of the Zen saying, “Nature does not hurry, yet all is accomplished.” Still, my “want to do” list is too long, so the next platitude is “pick the most important thing and the rest can wait.” Which is true. The most important thing is a no-brainer: write, write, write. and remember: the weekend lasts for more than one day.

So a reassuring thing happens as I sip my Asian Misto and tap my foot to Ella: I watch traffic speeding through the village and people with their knapsacks and travel mugs pounding along the sidewalk, and I wonder … What’s the rush?

Kombucha Boogie

ginger, cinnamon vanilla, and in progress

Everyone needs a hobby. My latest is brewing kombucha. When I started, I imagined maybe one batch per month. Now I’m “chain-brewing” so my SCOBY is working 24/7 with no compensation.

Right now, I’m drinking the last bottle from two batches ago, have another four bottles infusing, and a fresh batch of starter tea underway. That’s where SCOBY-Doo is presently housed, feeding merrily on the sugars and creating the bubbles that make kombucha so … weird.

Face it, Ru. It’s weird. Really. Who was brave enough (or fool enough) to peel back the gelatinous layer of goo and sample the smelly liquid beneath it? I guess something similar happened in 18^th century France, when Dom Perignon’s batch of white wine went wrong and champagne was born. Kombucha begins with tea, after all, so clearly something else was intended when the discovery was made. Isn’t that usually the way?

SCOBY (“symbiotic culture of bacteria and yeast”) is like a sourdough starter and who knows how old mine is? His direct ancestor belongs to my older sister, who got hers from her daughter, whose beastie can probably trace its lineage back to northeastern China where it supposedly all began. And my own SCOBY is a parent as well – I gave our first baby to a buddy whose initial batch is almost ready for bottling.

Green, black, herbal. Spicy, fruity, tangy—the flavours are proving endless and the “happy bugs” are a bonus as I’m dairy-free and no longer eat yogurt. I’m not 100 per cent sure, either, but my power surges seem to have ceased since I stepped up my kombucha consumption …

The Importance of Tea (Part IX)

“Synchronicitea”

Yesterday I walked into my executive director’s office and asked if it was too early in the season to kill myself.

“Why?” he asked. “Have you become a Toronto fan?”

“I’m thinking about it,” I replied. “Philly was shut out in Chicago last night.”

“They won on the weekend, didn’t they?”

“Dallas beat them 6 - 4.”

“Fire the coach,” he said. “He’s already lasted twice as long as Laviolette last year.”

After some discussion, during which he convinced me to stick around at least until I get the semi-annual report done for him, I returned to my desk and borrowed from GRRM when filling in my “what’s happening” field in the office IM:

CHI 4 – PHI 0. Life is miserable and full of pain.

A couple of hours later, a co-worker logged in and saw my frownie face emoticon. “Team not doing well?” she asked, with sympathy.

“Nope,” I answered glumly. “They haven’t won a game yet.”

“Maybe you should change your hockey tea.”

A horrible thought occurred that straightened me in my chair. “I haven’t been drinking my hockey tea!”

She was equally aghast. “Well, that’ll be why they’re sucking!”

“That’s it,” I declared, “we’re going to David’s at lunch.”

I know, I know. It’s a mad superstition, like wearing my jersey and setting Basher just so in front of the TV, but for the past couple of years, I’ve drunk David’s buttered rum black tea on Flyer game nights. Sometimes they win, sometimes they don’t, but it’s a ritual that I defied on October 8 and can it really be a coincidence that the team hadn’t won a game in 6 tries?

It was worth it to test the theory. I went to David’s, bought 50 gms of buttered rum, ordered a cup to go for insurance because I had no time to brew it before the puck dropped, and crossed my fingers for the game in Pittsburgh last night.

Philadelphia won, 4-2.

I rest my case.

My Daily Tea

Coffee drinkers may not comprehend this, but tea is as much a ritual as a habit. It either defines or complements the moment. It’s something to be savoured, if not treasured, and if it doesn’t taste good, there’s no point to it. Even the vessel can be specific to the blend. Today, a writing Friday, I would normally use my tea tumbler; however, I bought a new flavour yesterday and it wants to be steeped in my glass pot, then sipped from a little tiny cup. It’ll take up more room on my desk, but when tea speaks, I listen.

This one is called Ginger Pear and is the Tea of the Month at David’s. White tea with ginger, pear, cinnamon, vanilla, apples, rosehips and a few other boosters—how can it go wrong? White tea is a delicate thing, though, hence its desire to be sipped from a daintier vessel than my clunky chunky tumbler. Being new to my collection, it hasn’t been assigned a character yet … but in a way, it sorta kinda has.

My first thought this morning was to start a piece called “The End”. The vision was so strong that it was like a movie playing in my head. I got all excited to hit the computer and let the magic happen … and then my mind turned me toward all the unfinished projects, listing each by name and suggesting that I at least attempt to complete one of them sometime before the Second Coming and certainly before I start yet another story.

Sigh.

Actually, I’m in a good spot with each of the unfinished stories; I could pick up any one of them and do something worthwhile. That said, my other plan for today was to have a Newsroom marathon if HBO would oblige with the last three episodes of the second season. I watched the same three episodes twice last week, so surely the final trio would be scheduled for today.

Nope. No joy. Rats.

Hey, wait a sec. Shouldn’t I be happy about having a whole day in which to write? When I remembered that, I got pumped up again—and a little confused about what to write. My stupid schoolmarm mind has judged me guilty of neglect, but I’ve decided to go ahead with “The End” because it was the first thing on tap when I was still half-dreaming and every guru Ter has read agrees that the first thought of the day is the most important one, the real one, the one that will set the tone and be the most successful if you surrender to it.

So, Ginger Pear has just been assigned to Cassandra Stannard. She’s serial novel material, so I’d better get enough GP in stock before it’s discontinued …

Flânerie Fun

Had a great time on my Sunday flânerie – I remembered a game my driving instructor had played while teaching me to get speeding tickets. It’s called “Right, Left” and it’s simple: turn right at the corner, turn left at the next, right at the following, left at the one after that, and so on. As it happened, my corners in that order took me exactly from the village to my front door. Had I gone left, then right, I’d have wound up downtown, which would have been okay so long as I had a fiver for an iced tea and my limo pass to get me home.

I took more steps on the winding route than if I’d taken a more direct one, but I’d also have missed the gorgeous gardens, the sound of kids playing their backyards, and shaky chalk drawings on the pavement. There’s a plethora of quirky little streets in Fairfield and no one but the locals use them—a walk through the village or along the water can be a challenge at this time of year because everyone and their literal dog comes down to enjoy the area, but half a block over and you’re in a Trisha Romance painting. It’s marvelous.

I was also packing a full-size bottle of Torani gingerbread syrup, courtesy of the friendly staff at the Moka House. I finally got my weekend Asian Mist and a lesson in making one from the curly-haired cutie working the bar. Use less hot water, he advised, rather than half-water, half-milk; the tea will be stronger—and don’t add the syrup until the tea is steeped. If you add it before then, the tea won’t steep properly. Three pumps of syrup for a 16 oz. cup, or to taste. And darn, I forgot to get the vanilla powder I like to sprinkle on top. It was fun to chat with the staff about how good the drink is, and I really appreciated their openness regarding the one drink that brings me into their shop. So I assured them I won’t be able to duplicate their version and will keep coming in for the real thing. It doesn’t sound nearly as amusing aloud, but my version is likely to be christened “Asian Missed”.

Write or Die

Cook Street Moka House - Home of the Mythical Asian Mist

No Asian Mist today, alas. A sweet milky drink a day for the past week has weakened my lactose resistance, so I’ve decided to lay off the lattes for a bit, at least until my bout of “milk gout” dissipates. I did, however, push my afflicted knee to indulge in my flex-Friday flânerie and got some cool pictures to support future writing exercises. It also gave me a subject for today’s “live” post.

Almost everyone who learns that I am a writer will ask me: “Are you sending anything out?” as in, “Are you trying to get published?” Well, since disqualifying for an online writing competition because the piece I planned to enter was originally posted here at CR, my pat reply is now, “I write a blog, so technically, I am published.” The other day a co-worker asked “the question” and this time, the truth popped out.

I said, “I don’t care about getting published. I write because I’ll die if I don’t.”

There’s a great scene in the film Anonymous where the Earl of Oxford’s wife discovers he’s been writing again and goes slightly ballistic because everyone knows that writers are possessed of the Devil. The Earl’s response is a scary truth for any artistic spirit: the voices inside will drive him mad if he continues to ignore them.

I was also reminded of J. C. Hutchins’ recent post over at terribleminds.com, where he gives all sorts of reasons why unfinished projects can stack up (I’ve got a bunch of the darned things), but counsels against abandoning any of them. Even if a piece languishes for years, eventually it will find its way back to the spotlight. I was vexed with myself because “Black in Back” has stalled, so remembering that advice helped me to move on.

Moving on today means going back to the unfinished novel. Reijo’s romance has been in limbo for so long that there’s dust on the half-finished hard copy. That doesn’t mean I’ve abandoned it; in fact, the voices have begun whispering again and this weekend, I’ve decided to ramp it up once more. I might drop it again next week, but as long as I’m writing something, I’ll still be alive.

The Importance of Tea (Part VIII)

“My Cups Runneth Over”

Our dinner dishes are routinely done by my 7:30 teatime, and though we have a dishwasher, I prefer to do them by hand. My evening teacup is usually in the load, left over from the night before and the first item to be used after washing, often within minutes of the sink being drained. I’ll dry it myself rather than use a different cup for my ritual chamomile brew.

You would think that the cup doesn’t matter. Apparently, it does. One night I was late getting to the dishes. I came into the kitchen, saw my gold teacup awaiting its wash, and experienced a curious bout of mild panic. I had naively imagined my tea steeping while I did the dishes, but could it happen in another cup? Ha! Rather than talk myself into sensible behaviour, I watched myself fill the sink with hot soapy water, wash the gold teacup, peel off the rubber gloves, hand-dry the cup, then set it aside with the bag o’ tea dust installed. Then I flipped on the kettle and proceeded to wash the daily dishes. End result: evening tea drunk from the evening cup—I neither use that cup during the day nor drink anything other than chamomile tea from it.

That got me to thinking. When I inventoried my teacup collection (they’re actually mugs; only when invited to tea at The Manse do I sip from a china cup and saucer—and yes, I have a favourite there as well), I realized that specific cups exist for specific teas, and now I’m wondering if I need professional help.

If I do, it likely began in childhood. Growing up as one of five kids, I specifically remember a set of Melmac (?) cereal bowls with different-coloured rims—mine was orange, and if I had caught anyone else spooning corn flakes from it, I’d have freaked out on them. Same rule applied to the coffee mugs that appeared in my teens. Truly, I don’t remember if I chose the mug or it was chosen for me, but once I’d drunk from the vessel with the taupe flowers garishly splashed upon the ceramic, it owned me. I drank everything but coffee (yuk) from that cup—soup, broth, hot chocolate, and herb tea. When I left home, the cup stayed behind to serve during visits to the parental units. And I began my own collection.

Today, Ter has one cup—fitting for a woman who only drinks one kind of tea. I, on the other extreme of first-world frippery, have five. Five. Excluding the glass tumbler I use on all-writing days. And when company demands that I share, I try not to cringe when my green-ginger-in-the-morning-on-a-day-off cup is conscripted to contain something black and sweet. How I’ve come to this “singular usage” policy is a mystery, but what truly alarms me is that I’ve started doing it at work, too, with three cups and counting.

Tsarry Night

Good progress yesterday. I got the opening “crystal mist” scene done, and a second scene that has paved the way to the ballroom scene I plan to write this morning. Discovering a ballroom scene was an unexpected delight. I love to write about parties; they’re loaded with pocket dramas and now that I’m getting familiar with the characters, there’s potential for all sorts of fun and games.

A few blanks have been filled in, as well. Without offering any spoilers, Andrei’s younger brother is named Yuri. I can’t yet tell if he’s a good guy or a bad guy, but he’s a snappy dresser so maybe that’s a hint. There’s something dark about him, though it could be nothing more than sibling rivalry. If not for an accident of birth, he might have been the Tsar.

That’s another thing. The story’s working title is “The King’s Man”, but it turns out that the piece is set in a period styled after Imperial Russia. Dress swords and military braid, empire waists and lots of fur. I don’t know much about Russian history (so where is this coming from???) except that the head cheese was known as the Tsar rather than the King. I could change the title to “The Tsar’s Man”, but it doesn’t sound quite right. “Tsarry Night” sounds worse. The title stays as is for now, as telling the story is more important.

Of equal import, however, are the writerly accoutrements. My sense is that Imperial Russia calls for black tea, but I don’t drink black tea while I’m actually writing. Black tea is reserved for my afternoon break. Drat. Good thing I’ve topped up my stash of gyokuro imperial green—hey, it’s got the word “imperial” in its name, so maybe it applies after all!

I’m writing to the “Ritual” CD by cellist/composer Adam Hurst. The first track blew me right into the middle of a Russian winter, which has set the tone nicely. If I can wait out the city works truck that’s growling and banging outside my window, I’m hoping for as successful a session today as I had yesterday.

Since I’m also on vacation, I’m taking this afternoon off to stroll into the village for pistachios, “Passages” and a paleta—the pistachios are part of an energy bar that Ter asked me to get for her, “Passages” is a movie that Boy Sister asked me to view so we can discuss at our next Philosophy Quest, and paletas are simply artisan Popsicles (“paleta” is Spanish for “on a stick”) that are made in town and so freaking good that I dream about them. I can grab one at the local market and enjoy it on the walk home.

I almost always feel incredibly fortunate. Today I feel it a thousandfold. My quantum physics test is working in my favour—but that’s another post. Right now, I’d better blend up my smoothie and get to work.

From pseudo-Russia with love,

Gone Writing

Viktor – the King’s Man

Andrei – the King

Stacia – Andrei’s queen

Nikolai – Andrei’s heir

? – Andrei’s younger brother

Tatiana, Susanna – Andrei’s daughters

Asian Mist – decaf lemon/ginger tea with gingerbread syrup and foamed milk. OMG! So good!

I intended on a decaf mocha when Ter dropped me in the village, this morning. Viktor is a dark, earthy character (unsure what that means yet—saturnine? Brooding? Serious? All of the above?) and the mocha seemed to fit, but ginger will always trump coffee, even coffee heavily laced with chocolate.

So. CR goes live this week as Ru pursues an exercise prompted by a generic instrumental entitled “Crystal Mist”. I liked the poetry of the words so much that I tried to imagine what a crystal mist looks like, and from there I got pictures, feelings, the sense of a story—one I’d like to write in the style of “Four Legs and a Tale”, i.e., by freestyling in the moment.

The idea struck a few weeks ago. I’ve been writing mentally while waiting, as Agatha Christie recommended, for a chair, a table, a typewriter and some peace. I’m on vacation this week with the house to myself. The planets are aligned to let me begin. All I have to do is stay out of the way … yet already I fear that putting words on the screen will dilute the strength of the vision, that my skill will reduce a potentially vibrant piece to something pale and—dare I say?—boring.

Geez, Ru. Viktor wouldn’t have chosen you if you weren’t up to the task. It’s just the usual artist’s fear of the blank canvas. All I need do is close my eyes and start transcribing. I’ve recently picked up a couple of new “be here now” tricks, so this story is a test of quantum physics as much as a creative endeavour. Not like the salvation of the world hangs in the balance; again, I’m just playin’.

I’ll keep the blog posted with my progress. Right now my job is to quit dawdling. Time to get on my horse and gallop through that crystal mist.