‘Hello … is it tea you’re looking for?’
The mug my Valentine gave me. Tea with a wee dash of the homo-romantic … he knows me well <3
If you look up ‘tea’ in the first cookery book that comes to hand you will probably find that it is unmentioned; or at most you will find a few lines of sketchy instructions which give no ruling on several of the most important points.
This is curious, not only because tea is one of the main stays of civilisation in this country, as well as in Eire, Australia and New Zealand, but because the best manner of making it is the subject of violent disputes.
When I look through my own recipe for the perfect cup of tea, I find no fewer than eleven outstanding points. On perhaps two of them there would be pretty general agreement, but at least four others are acutely controversial. Here are my own eleven rules, every one of which I regard as golden:
Next morning, after I had sucked down a thoughtful cup of tea, I went into Motty’s room to investigate.
Jeeves and the Unbidden Guest, P. G. Wodehouse
Coffee isn’t my cup of tea.
About fifty yards east of the Ritz there is one of those blighted tea-and-bun shops you see dotted about all over London, and into this, if you’ll believe me, young Bingo dived like a homing rabbit; and before I had time to say a word we were wedged in at a table, on the brink of a silent pool of coffee left there by an early luncher.
Jeeves in the Springtime, P. G. Wodehouse
It maddened Hornblower that he shivered enough in the cold for the cup to clatter in the saucer as he took it. But the tea was grateful, and Hornblower drank it eagerly.
‘Give me another cup,’ he said, and was proud of himself that he could think about tea at that moment.