Illustration by Rania Abdallah
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The first cup of tea I brewed for Kate was 45 years ago.
It was not a success.
After an extremely brief courtship, we moved in together, knowing virtually nothing about each other. I knew I liked her, that her parents were British and she loved tea. At the time, it seemed like enough.
That first cold Monday in April, I arrived at our recently rented apartment earlier than she did. I guessed she’d be chilled from her streetcar ride from work and made a large pot of tea. I expected her home in about an hour, so I put it on the stove to simmer.
The horror on Kate’s face when she saw the bubbling pot told me all I needed to know about my tea brewing skills. And thus began a three-decade journey of instruction on the right way to make a cup of tea.
Looking back on our decades together, the only things that didn’t change about us over the years was our love of manual transmissions in our cars and tea.
Especially tea.
How I found joy in caregiving for my mother
We had cups of tea in the morning and the evening, and every hour in between. We sipped it in our kitchen and living room and bedroom; sitting on the back deck of our farm, mugs of tea carefully protected from the hordes of farm cats vying for our affection; in tents and five-star hotels; on both coasts of this country and every province in between; in sailboats and motorhomes; in Cuba and Bermuda and the Bahamas; in dingy coffee shops where you kept your hand on your wallet and formal tea rooms where the Queen would feel comfortable. For a quarter of a century every winter Saturday morning saw us stumble off to play hockey before the sun rose, travel mugs of tea clutched in our hands.
We debated square tea bags versus round ones; loose leaf in tricky little bags as opposed to impossible to clean metal infusers we’d submerge in boiling water, waiting impatiently for it to steep.
On a cold day, nothing was as fortifying as a strong cup of tea. After a hard day, nothing as soothing. Tea got every day off to a good start – even the hot summer days.
Tea was our pick-me-up, our wind down, our comfort blanket.
Near the end, I’d visit Kate each morning in the hospital. I’d arrive at 6 a.m. with a thermos of boiled water, milk, teabags, a small teapot and two china mugs. I’d prepare us each a cup in the prescribed manner and gently wake her up. We’d sit quietly and enjoy the ritual and each other’s company amidst the tubes and IVs and medical clutter.
We didn’t talk about the past – or the future. If we talked at all it was about the tedium of the present, our new normal, an unimaginable horror somehow made tolerable by the simple ritual of a warm cup of tea.
At the hospice, when Kate was too sick to swallow, I’d bring my tea to her bedside and sit holding her hand, sipping my tea and chatting as if it was just another day, hoping she couldn’t feel my heart breaking.
Now when I am by myself at our farm, I don’t have to heat the pot first and slowly pour boiling water over a single bag nestled at the bottom. There’s no need to put the milk in the cup before the tea, or to stir and stir and stir to ensure the sugar is completely dissolved.
I don’t have to do any of those things. But I do.
Don DeWolfe lives in Toronto.