The other day I was having a “some assembly required” morning (assembly equaled tea – lots). I mentioned to a friend that it’s disconcerting to think 75% of my blood is black tea, but he thought this would insure an easy transfusion. Okay, once that was true. But not since my favorite tea was DISCONTINUED.
Now I will simply have to bleed to death. To death. Choice Organic Teas, a Seattle company that, until recently, had all my fervent love and loyalty, made a version of Russian Caravan that I drank like it was going out of style. Because it was.
It’s not for everyone. My friend Kirsten won’t even allow me to drink it in her presence. Imagine the scent of a campfire crossed with an acupuncture clinic, both of which I find pleasant. Stick me full of needles? It soothes me. Perch marshmallows on the ends of the needles and scoot me up close to an outdoor blaze? Even better. I admit, it’s an acquired taste.
And acquire it, I did. I was seduced, and abandoned. Kirsten claims they stopped producing it because I was the only one drinking it. I scoured the interwebs, located some stray boxes from Swanson Health products and ordered fifteen, perhaps the last in existence.
And now, I am down to the final box. This week, I will brew my last cup. I ask what I often ask: why is a life of privilege and ease so hard?
My husband noticed that I was flying through the tea bags, not squirreling them away for special occasions. “Shouldn’t you be like Elaine on Seinfeld with her limited supply of discontinued spermicidal sponges?” Yes, perhaps I should assess each day’s teaworthiness.
But as I told my husband, “I could die anytime.” To which he merely cocked an eyebrow. As in: make sure you tell me when, so I put the yard waste on the curb, because you probably won’t get a chance to do it before keeling over (from lack of tea).
In the pages of a family favorite, Neil Gaiman’s Fortunately, the Milk, the children dread the father’s No Tea Face. My own visage, when likewise deprived, has become legend in our home. Will my family see more of this expression, or will I find my transferred affection rewarded by Arbor Teas? We’ll see; my order has yet to arrive. They make a Russian Caravan, though not in tea bags, at least not until I speak to the manager.
And now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some final cups of tea to drink. My husband and children all got called away on urgent business with unspecified return dates – strange, but I can’t be bothered. And now to steep (perchance to dream, of…nothing, nothing but tea).