Don’t Quit Sugar

English Breakfast

I talk a lot about how no one should put more than 2 sugars in their hot beverages. I suppose an explanation is in order.

Sugar is bad for you.

It’s not new news. It’s not even news. Everyone knows that sugar has absolutely zero health benefits. But I still like it. I am firm believer in cake (especially cheesecake). Chocolate was created for bad moods. Canada is a country devoted entirely to syrup, and I love both country and substance.

So why my objection to sugar in tea?

There’s a couple of reasons. First, tea is vast and varied and can be manipulated to suit tastebuds without the addition of sugar. People who believe in good whiskey tend not to cut it with anything, because then you’ll miss some aspect of the whiskey. (At least, this is the impression I get from whiskey drinkers. I’m completely allergic to alcohol myself, so I’m winging it here). If you want to understand the nuance, depth and complexity of a tea, you have to drink it and learn to enjoy it without any sugar first.

Some teas do come alive with a hint of sweetener. A touch of honey in chai is a terrific idea every now and then. A drop of maple syrup in New York Breakfast tastes divine. And Madagascan Vanilla is a new tea when you have it with sugar or milk or sugar and milk. But the only reason I can appreciate these teas with sweetener is because I first understood their profile without.

All well and good for people like me who are big fans of enjoying a cup of tea down to its last sip, but not everyone is that devoted to the morning cuppa. Fair enough. I still think sugar in tea as a principle is not a good idea. It’s because I like sugar that I don’t think it should be in tea. As I mentioned, I believe in cake, in scones and jam, and chocolate chip bikkies. And when you believe in these things, and hope to live beyond 45 years old, you have to cut out sugar somewhere.

Tea hosts so many health benefits, that by dumping in a small mound of sweetener, you’re ruining your chances of those health benefits making any kind of a difference. And because I believe in sugary treats, I have to believe in balancing this with good food options on a day-to-day basis. Personally, I’d rather have a full blown slice of cake in the place of 10 sugar-added cups of tea. I don’t think you can enjoy both and live a long and happy life.

And so, we arrive at English Breakfast. It’s a bit of a beast to be honest. Not at all a smooth tea, it boasts an astringent flavour. It’s as though the British values of tutting, queuing and whinging were crystallised into a flavour and infused into a tea leaf. That’s English Breakfast. I have a hard time taking it without milk. There is a bitterness in a cup of English Breakfast that betrays the expectation of a forecast of drizzle and disappointment. That said, it’s hard to imagine not drinking English Breakfast. It is such a classic flavour, and nearly always on offer, alongside Earl Grey.

It is a truly tempting tea to add sweetener to. The flavour won’t suffer for it, in fact, sugar would probably be an improvement. But it is a matter of principle that I take it with milk only. If I’m honest, English Breakfast is such well worn start to the day, I have recommended to friends that they replace their morning coffee with a cup of the iconic tea. This suggestion is rarely received well and often devolves into me defending the superiority of tea to virtually no avail. But most people I speak to who drink coffee require a minimum of 2 sugars. If your drink is that bitter, you don’t actually like the taste of it. Few are prepared to admit that they don’t like the taste of coffee, but they do enjoy the buzz of the caffeine. But I, in all confidence, can assure you, that I like the taste of tea. Even without sugar.

English Breakfast: 3/5
Enjoy with: the first rays of the day.

Better than Sydney

Melbourne Breakfast

Ah, Melbourne. The city voted ‘Better than Sydney’ by 100% of people raised in Melbourne. The San Francisco/New York/Paris/London/Prague/Milan of Australia. A place so good, you definitely will never be good enough for it. The home of snootiness, because apparently, it’s, “So liveable!”

That said, I love Melbourne. And I like it better than Sydney.  Maybe I could learn to hate it, but for now, I think it’s fantastic. Melbourne speaks to my interests: the arts, especially theatre, good food, TEA CULTURE, excellent public transport, live comedy, and a CBD in a grid. But, for all my enjoyment of Melbourne, I haven’t spent all that much time there.

I remember visiting when I was about 4 years old. I have family in Melbourne and this was our first visit I can remember, also my first time on a plane. I was 4 and I had such a barking cough, I threw up my dinner on the plane. The flight attendant took our trays away before we could save our small packets of M&Ms. It was the first time I’d seen M&Ms too. I’ve spent a large portion of my adulthood making up for that lack. Anyway, it was winter when we visited Melbourne, and the days were so much colder than they were up north. I remember freezing at the back of the church hall during the Sunday service, and then roasting in the central heating at someone’s house afterwards. I remember very little else.

We visited the family again, for Christmas, when I was about 11. I got a discman for Christmas that year. I was excited to have a gadget before all my other friends, and disappointed to discover how much those stupid things skipped. We went to Sovereign Hill during this trip and spent a lot of time sitting quietly in people’s living rooms. I don’t know who these people were, but my parents must have. I hope. We did go into the CBD, but we spent a lot of time looking for the RACV for some reason. I do remember seeing a good number of the sights though.

My most recent, and indeed, only grown-up visit to Melbourne was not long after MM and I got married. That’s getting to be a few years ago now. My grandparents had decided not to make the trip to our wedding, so I decided introductions were in order. We had a short getaway to Melbourne and loved it.

This time, we sat politely in only one living room, that of my grandparents. They’re very accommodating people, and were pleased to meet my new husband. After spending a day with them, we had 2 days to do the city. We ate black fungus at a Korean restaurant. We ate at Lord of the Fries before it had more than 1 location. We found amazing cups of tea (and MM drank some decent coffee, apparently). We went to a Chronicles of Narnia exhibit and saw a letter C.S. Lewis penned himself. We lost ourselves in cozy bookshops. We laughed ourselves almost sick at a comedy bar, and didn’t realise how fortunate we were to be seeing Celia Pacquola live for the cost of a donation at the door. She only had a short set, among many others, but it stands out in my mind as one of the wittiest pieces of stand up I’ve ever seen. And as time wore on and she started doing more and more, I’ve been able to retain a small, smug feeling that I knew her work and liked her long before most. I have never been on the front end of any trend before, so I’m a happy camper just to have this. For a short break, it invokes so many happy memories, I wonder how long before I can book another little getaway.

In lieu of a visit, I have Melbourne Breakfast. The blend is perfect for the first cup of the day, and equally as perfect in the afternoon. It is sweet and vanilla while being boldly and unapologetically black. This is the tea for pick me ups and for contemplation. It can be appreciated as a treat to sip mindfully, or a workhorse to see you meet a deadline. Beret or Business suit, Melbourne breakfast has your back. It’s perfect on its own, but a splash of milk can give it a full-bodied, creamy richness. For a perfect cup, use vanilla soy.

Melbourne Breakfast: 5/5

Enjoy with: everyone. Everyone likes this tea.

Remarkable

Orange Pekoe

Standing at the top of the world, bracing against the roaring gale, witnessing the whole sky dance and unable to take it all in at once, I had never felt so tiny and so human. And it all began with a cup of tea.

Reykjavik is the capital city of Iceland, the most northern capital city in the world. But for a country with ‘ice’ in its name, it is surprisingly warm, even in the depths of winter. The Gulf Stream from Mexico empties out right above Iceland, so winter temperatures are reasonably stable within a few degrees of zero. Sure, that’s cold, but it’s not deathly cold just to walk outside. And it is winter after all.

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Iceland is a magical country. It’s so untouched by the rest of the world, but also familiarly European enough not be alien. The snow clings to the ground like a dusting of wonder, and the long winter nights lend themselves to cozy fires, warm drinks, and reading. Storytelling is in the fabric of the culture. Arriving just after Christmas gave me an insight into some of the holiday traditions. The Yule Lads complement Santa. One of 14 troll-like creatures come in the windows of children’s bedrooms each night in the lead up to Christmas. Children leave out a shoe where the trolls deposit a chocolate for well behaved children, and a potato for the naughty ones. Reading that the majority of Icelanders still believe in the elves (Huldufólk) of their ancient folklore sounded absurd to me, until I arrived. I’d believe in elves too if I’d grown up in that country. It has an indescribable mystical quality in the atmosphere and the dark winter is friend to the imagination.

My main ambition while in Iceland was to witness the Aurora Borealis. I’d read and heard about this phenomenon for many years, and could hardly believe I would be in the right part of the world at the right time of year to behold the Lights for myself. I booked a tour with remarkable optimism. The evening came, the tour bus arrived, we eagerly hopped on board. The conditions were perfect. Clear sky, high solar wind activity. We waited, we watched, and we waited some more. Alas, there was no sighting that night. The tour company offered a complimentary tour due to the lack of sighting.

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The next night, the tour was cancelled. It was overcast and the atmospheric conditions were not ideal. We would have to wait one more night. As the evening wore on, the sky cleared and a strong wind picked up from the harbour. Deciding to brave the wind, we went in search of a hot drink, and found ourselves at a basement tea bar on the main street. The room was heaving with people and hot drink orders were about to close (the booze was only just starting to flow though). I jostled for a table and my Main Man was left to make drink orders. He returned with an Orange Pekoe for me. The warm tea was heavenly on the cold night. Patrons playing the piano in the corner provided a lively atmosphere amongst the cozy candlelight. We toasted our decision to travel to the other side of the world once again. Aurora or not, this was a trip worth taking and a country worth visiting. When we were walking home, hearts and stomachs warmed, for no reason, MM looked up at the sky.

“What colour do you think that is?” he asked.

We stared for a minute.

“Wait! That’s Aurora!”

We dashed up the hill, the wind fighting us the entire way, until we were standing in the square outside the cathedral. We could see the entire sky from our vantage point, but could scarcely take it all in. Band after band of colour rippled across the sky, twisting, turning, teasing us. It didn’t need our existence, nor did it dance for our benefit, it simply glowed because it was supposed to. The sky becomes so much larger when you try to survey the whole thing at once. It highlights how small you are, how incapable you are of conjuring something this spectacular because you’re just a human. It made think just how much easier it is to believe something else, something bigger or more magical, exists in moments just like these.

In the middle of the city, where we were told the light pollution would destroy all chance of seeing the Lights, on a night when we were told there was no chance of a sighting, we stood, open-mouthed and marvelling. And all because a little earlier in the evening we’d gone in search of a cup of tea.

In a necessary twist of irony, one of the most remarkable events in my life was preceded by one of the most unremarkable teas. Every Orange Pekoe I’ve tried is an unremarkable black, and T2’s offering is no different. It’s a straight black tea, without much depth, and a bit temperamental to brew. It’s not difficult to get a cardboard flavour out of this tea, and milk doesn’t do much for the flavour. My personal recommendation is a squeeze of lemon to lift the cup somewhat. My other recommendation is to see the Northern Lights to lift the experience immensely.

Orange Pekoe: 3/5
Enjoy with: a squeeze of lemon and a celestial marvel.

Spaghetti Arms

Chocolate

I understand it’s quite fashionable to talk about one’s mental health problems. I’m all for fighting the stigma around mental health, but part of the issue with talking about mental health like we talk about physical health is that is removes most of the nuance surrounding mental health conditions. I think people who suffer from mental illnesses should be allowed to say they are sick. I think they should be allowed to access the same health services as those suffering physical ailments. And I think they should be treated with the same gravity as someone suffering a long term physical illness. But I also think nuance is important in the discussion.

There’s a distinct difference between feeling depressed for a few days and battling suicidal thoughts for a few years. There’s a difference between the baby blues and prolonged post-natal depression. There’s a difference between concern over a big work presentation and debilitating anxiety. And like the general public has learned to recognise the difference between a sprained ankle and torn ligaments, the public ought to be privy to the differences in degrees of mental health concerns, and the circular causes that perpetuate certain mental illnesses. Every statistic and study and in the world won’t necessarily help the average, mentally healthy person come to grips with the complexity of what an unhealthy individual faces. That is why stories matter.

Mental illness is not untreatable, however, as a patient it can feel as though the future is bleak because it takes time, commitment, and experimentation for an individual health solution to be reached. The common remedy for most mental illnesses is a combination of good sleep, healthy eating, physical activity, routine, social connection, medication, counselling, and some kind of mental rejuvenation habit like mindfulness or meditation. To a healthy person, it seems like this is a manageable combination of factors with a little bit of dedication.

So why does a mentally unhealthy person have so much trouble managing?

Well, imagine the 8 things listed above are physical items you have to hold. Healthy people will find a way to cradle them in their arms, or just put 1 or 2 things down if it’s too much to hold all of them. The mentally unhealthy have arms made of overcooked spaghetti. So we stand in front of the very things that will help us improve our situation, with no way of knowing even how to move our arms. And so, we despair. How are we ever going to get better? We can’t move our spaghetti arms.

It’s not unusual that well-meaning people tell us sick folk to ‘just try to get up’, or to ‘have a green smoothie’, or ‘go for a run’. All good suggestions, all things helpful to overall well being. But you’re a step ahead of us, healthy people. We have the spaghetti arms thing going on.

Some people carry on as if they don’t have spaghetti arms, and these folk are one step behind again. First they need to be able to accept their slippery appendage situation. And this isn’t easy, especially when for your whole life, you’ve had normal arms, and you look at everyone around you with normal arms and you wish for all your life the spaghetti arms weren’t a thing. But they are a thing, and some of us have them.

This is one of the many reasons it can be so frustrating to hear stories of people who have successfully managed their mental illness. They say the same things helped them: exercising regularly, sleeping well, eating healthier food. I’ve found myself reading success stories thinking, “I KNOW all this, but I just CAN’T!” I haven’t learned to work my pasta arms. I hear these things and it makes me feel like I might never get better, which exacerbates my condition.

We need you to be patient as we learn to accept our new wobbly-armed existence. And as we learn to hold all the pieces in place with our wobbly arms, one baby step at a time. And for all my spaghetti-armed buddies out there, be kind to yourself. Sometimes you’ll hold it all together. Sometimes you’ll drop everything and have to start from the beginning again. But on those days, just wave your spaghetti arms high in the air with me. You can count it as exercise for the day.

The ‘what’ might be very similar between people when it comes to recovery, but the how is going to change from person to person. All the spaghetti arm stories matter. They’re all a little bit different.

On the days when we’re waving our wavy arms in the air, we have to be kind to ourselves. Most of us have some kind of coping mechanism we resort to. I’m a big fan of chocolate.

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I tried really hard to eat less chocolate, by investing in Chocolate tea. And hear this: it’s a great tea. It’s a strong black tea with cocoa husks in it. This means it tastes like black tea, but comes with some added sweetness and an aftertaste a little like you ate dark chocolate half an hour ago. It’s a terrific tea. A little bit of milk makes is creamy, but I like it best all on its own.

But when you are looking for a block of chocolate, don’t put those expectations on the tea. It will not deliver. If you’re like me, some days you can’t substitute the big guns.

Chocolate: 3/5
Enjoy with: spaghetti-armed chums

Pulling it Together

Irish Breakfast

It’s Sunday afternoon. No matter what stage of adult life I find myself, Sunday afternoon seems to feel very similar. It’s those final hours of daylight I have to prepare myself for the week ahead. And the manner in which I spend these hours has some kind of impact on the type of week I will have.

As an undergrad student, Sunday afternoon was a time to order my week and determine how I would complete my readings and work on enough of my assignments to reach my due dates on time. All of this had to occur around errands, chores and work throughout the week. And when I was learning a new language, it was the only part of Sunday when I had time to review my language materials. During my postgrad study, it was the hours where I could fire off a few hundred words more, reach the target I had set 7 days earlier, and start the week with a clean slate. That was rare. I spent month upon month playing catch up to myself, but only being responsible to myself. There are a handful of benefits to having a negligent supervisor.

When I was working full time, Sunday afternoon was the time to inject some calm into the week. I would iron my clothes for the work week. I would prepare what snacks and meals I could, so I had food on hand. This was the time in life I was planning my wedding, and Sunday night meant dinner with my fiance. This acted as brilliant motivator for getting everything done. Completing tasks on Sunday afternoon gave me more time to consider wedding details during the week. And I was rewarded with the best dinner company I could imagine.

When I was a working mother, Sunday was the afternoon to lament the week ahead. It was peppered with lists and anxiety, the feeling that I never got on top of the previous week, and was unlikely to get on top of this week. I had to live each day in an anxious grip of fear and pain. I was sick and I had an injury, both of which inhibited my ability to be a good mother. I was desperately vying for promotion at work, only later to discover I was chasing an imaginary carrot. I was never at home when I was at home, and I wanted to be with my Little Lad when I was at work. Sunday afternoon was the time to be with my boy, to be with my Main Man and to hope that this week would be better. Unfortunately, the weeks never got better. I only got sicker.

And here I am now: living away from the city that feeds my anxiety, body gripped by chronic fatigue syndrome, back injury and PTSD. Unable to work, largely unable to mother. My Main Man is a Super Dad to our Little Lad, and I spend my weeks resting, predominantly in the hope my health will improve. And Sunday afternoon is the time to focus on a good week ahead. I’ve been imagining and attempting to engineer good weeks for a couple of months since we arrived in the country, but they haven’t been forthcoming. But still, I try. Two Sundays ago, I found myself planning a good week. And for the first time in over a year, I had one. I exercised every day, and noticed a reduction in my level of pain. My mood improved. I was present with LL more than I had been since he was a dependent infant. So last Sunday, I felt invincible, I could have another good week. Then Monday arrived and I had not slept the night before. The week was off to a rocky start. But I would not be deterred. I listened to my body and slowed down, hoping for a better day Tuesday. Tuesday arrived and I seized it with both hands. It was a good day, or so I told myself. The week was back on track, even though I was feeling more weary than I ought to. And then Wednesday came. I got up, slowly. I spent the morning with my family. And by 11am, I collapsed back into bed, where I stayed. I couldn’t believe the week was not going to pan out. Wednesday night came, and I didn’t sleep more than 10 minutes at a stretch. I was getting a cold, my burning throat swelled and I struggled to swallow. Thursday, Friday, Saturday: the cold took over and I was slave to it. Today I roused myself from bed, very late, and took stock of my Sunday afternoon, the cold still lingering.

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The house is untidy, my library books are overdue and a week’s worth of expectations have been swept aside. But Sunday afternoon feels the same. I’ll attempt to tidy something. I’ll fill my planner with my hopes for the week, though they have dwindled in number from my former years. Each day will contain something like: exercise, read, write, spend time with LL. Maybe just 2 chores this week. That should be achievable.

And here rests the cup of Irish Breakfast. A faithful cup, but in its own way, a little disappointing. Despite its names, I’ve always preferred to drink it in the afternoon. It is bold with a musky flavour and malty notes. It isn’t smooth, so milk and sweetener are almost a must. And though I’ve tried, time and time again to like the T2 version, I struggle to elevate it over Twinings. But I go back to it. I hope it will improve. It hasn’t yet, but a good cup could be on its way. I hope it brings a good week with it.

Irish Breakfast: 2/5
Enjoy with: hope.

Bad Haircuts

Good Evening

I’m going to jump right in here and start with the tea, because the moment I drank it I knew there was only one way to describe it: the mullet tea.

Anyone who has grown up with even the slightest hint of bogan understanding knows that the 80’s hairstyle ‘the mullet’ was consistently referred to as ‘business up front and party at the back’. What ensued was the one of the most ocularly offensive hairstyle fashions in living memory. But it is distinct and it is memorable. It even enjoyed a brief resurgence about 12 years ago. I couldn’t believe it.

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Anyway, Good Evening relates to this iconic hairstyle because it is a blend of green and black teas and it is so well blended you get a wonderful mouthful of both teas without any competition. It is green on the front and black on the back. You’ll swear you’ve taken a draught of green and by the time the last drop has trickled from your tongue you’ll be certain it was only ever black. It will draw you back for sip after sip until you too have the misfortune of discovering an empty cup.

Rarely have I lived in the total absence of bogans or some kind of equivalent. I can’t say never, because there was one time in my life when I lived in a place that saw virtually everything as beneath them.

When I was 19 I lived in Connecticut for 3 months. I did so voluntarily, but without doubt, naively. The place I lived had no neon signs, no stragglers or homeless people, no bars or nightclubs, and no idea that the big, wide world existed out there as a real place occupied by real people.

As an idealistic youngster, I decided to spend a year overseas as a nanny. I know people think the term ‘au pair’ sounds fancier, but the main distinction between an au pair and a nanny is that nannies have formal training, which I had, and au pairs are largely untrained. I never really got to make that distinction during my time nannying, because I found my work through an au pair agency. So I got lumped in with all the other au pairs who had come to the USA with varying degrees of nobility in their intentions.

I accepted a placement with a family in Connecticut with 3 children. Children is a generous term, they were aged 15, 14, and 11. Once the youngest reached their 12th birthday, the family would no longer be eligible for another au pair through this agency. This is the usual overseas worker nightmare story, where the family was unkind and the terms of my employment were constantly shifting, and never in my favour. Rather than relay the whole sordid affair in narrative terms, I’ll present you with an accurate job description of my brief time with this family.

Would you like to work with children? Have you invested time and funds in growing your understanding of child development and would now like to apply your knowledge and skills in a personalised setting? Do you crave the adventure of working abroad in an exciting, new location?

Great!

Here in the Black family, we have 3 precocious brats that have been handed everything they have ever wanted their entire lives. Mr Black works on Wall Street and is almost never home, though when he is, he will treat you like the working class citizen he assumes you are. Mrs Black is a stay at home mother who never has time to stay at home. She is insistent that she volunteers constantly with both snooty schools that the children attend, but you will never see any evidence of this. Her nails are always done though. She can make snide remarks about people’s weight (including yours) at half a moment’s notice.

We will grossly overstate the amount of time off you have, and generously understate precisely what is expected of you. We will communicate in vague terms like, “Can you do me a favour?” Meaning you are not on the clock, you aren’t obligated to do what we’re asking you to do, but we are exploiting your young age and willingness to please the people that keep you housed and employed.

When a point of difference occurs between us, we will lean heavily on our religious and ethnic background that is almost useless to us at any other time, potentially insinuating that you have some kind of prejudice against us.

We teach our children solid values. Like making money and getting into college, even at the expense of other people’s very lives.

You will look after our dogs while we go on vacations, even though it’s a violation of your employment terms.

Furthermore, where we live is in the middle of absolutely no where. You will drive in excess of 1000 kilometres per week between school drop offs and the 13 after-school activities our precious snots are involved in, in the hopes of getting some kind of college scholarship.

We expect you to pick up the phone IMMEDIATELY when we call. Bear in mind you spend the majority of your time driving, so what we are asking you to do is blatantly illegal. We don’t care. Do as we say. No, we will not purchase you a hands-free device.

Enjoy the endless sprawl of McMansions, and have no viable form of entertainment within an hour’s drive of our snowy, soulless home.

We can’t wait for you to join our family (payroll).

Never in my life have I so desperately longed for Tim-Tams to greet me in the mail and remind me that life exists outside the frozen wasteland I found myself in.

It wasn’t all bad. I spectacularly totalled their car before being transferred to another family. That worked out much better.

Good Evening: 5/5

Enjoy with: a decent haircut and a perusal of the classifieds.

Chai Time We Had a Chat

Chai

It’s time to talk about puns. Puns are amazing. They are the only things that make me feel smart about speaking English fluently (I can’t speak any other language, pleb that I am). The philosophy of word play captures my imagination, and puns are right up there with things I am fascinated by in the realm of linguistics.

People who say they don’t like puns are liars. Much like people who say they don’t like poetry. Here is a Venn diagram of liars to illustrate the point I am about to make: 

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The reason I know people who say they don’t like poetry are liars is because these people often like music with lyrics or rhyming children’s books or both. These are forms of poetry. Ha! Caught you, liars! The reason I know people who say they don’t like puns are liars, is inductive reasoning from knowing how many people lie about poetry. Also lots of people say they don’t like poetry and lots of people groan at puns. So there you have it. Flawless logic, I know.

My assumption is that puns grate on people because they are an obvious form of humour. Obvious forms of humour are generally categorised as simple or unrefined, or for the stupid among us. No one likes to be thought of as stupid, hence the groaning at puns. And not all puns are fantastic, I will concede. Anyone who regularly listens to the podcast The Bugle will know that Andy has pulled out some shockers over the years. But in his defence, he has shared some corkers as well. You should definitely check out The Bugle. Especially episode 4030 from around the 16 minute mark: Alice Fraser’s pun almost stops the show.

This preamble brings us firmly to chai, and how we all need to chai and get oolong. Possibly the quintessential winter tea, I chai and slip in a pun every time I brew it. Chai has gained a lot of notoriety in the last 10 years, but not all chai is created equal. Tread with caution when ordering a ‘chai latte’, especially if the establishment is known for liquid evil (or ‘coffee’ as some insist on calling it). Frequently these are made on powder bases without balanced flavours. But this isn’t always the case, so test widely and find your favourite!

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Chai made from leaves tends to balance a lot more easily, and has the black tea leaves to ground it. Spicy flavours like ginger, cinnamon and cloves close in the like a warm hug and conjure images of a roaring fire, a comfy cardigan and a good book, even if you’re in the middle of a blustery commute. Chai is a star all on its own, but is accommodating of any milk you fancy. If you want to sweeten, honey is the best bet, as it elevates the spicy notes, where sugar beats them up for their lunch money.

If you read my very, very early posts, you’ll know I was concerned I would wind up with more tea paraphernalia that I didn’t necessarily need. Well, guilty as charged. MM bought me a milk frother for making my own tea lattes. It doesn’t take up much space, and I figure I can justify it if I use it latte. I couldn’t wait to chai it out and it worked really well.

I also had this pun exchange with MM while discussing the new library book I had borrowed for LL. The book features vehicles.

MM: Buddy, I bet you’re wheelie glad Mummy borrowed the book for you.
Me: That was a jeep shot.

Is competitive punning a thing? I think I’d be good at it.

Chai: 5/5

Enjoy with: winter and a friend who isn’t too chai and mighty.