Tea and Redemption

The world outside is still dark, and the village a collection of indistinct shapes and muffled sounds. The day is cold and damp, the kitchen a place of shadows in early morning light.  My bones, sinews and joints protest the return of winter, and summer seems like a lovely dream from long ago and far away.

How does one banish winter for a few minutes? Looking for a fine hot potion to start the day and drown my doldrums, I rattle around in the larder, opening canisters and sniffing them appreciatively. Earl Grey? Darjeeling? Irish Breakfast? Lapsang Souchong? Yorkshire Gold? Constant Comment? Chai Latte? Northern Delights Cloudberry (Arpiqutik) or Crowberry (Paurngaqutik)? Rooibos? Ginseng? Japanese popcorn tea? Perhaps a simple Orange Pekoe?

The last container is away in the back of the tea cupboard, and it holds tiny dried chrysanthemum buds, rustling gently and murmuring softly to each other.  When I open it, the dry golden fragrance of last summer wafts out, and for a moment, I hear tinkling bells and exotic music, feel the warm August sun on my face. Oh yes, this is the ambrosial stuff we will partake of this morning.

Waiting for the kettle to whistle, I do a little whistling of my own and glance at the shadows falling across my mug and the little Chinese bowl of chrysanthemum buds sitting on the counter. The shadows contrast wonderfully with the fragile porcelain vessels and their aromatic contents, and light coming through the kitchen window paints their verges pale gold. Forget the the cold weather and short days, this morning scene is perfect just as it is. Tea anyone?