It has been long known that my passion is not for coffee, alcohol, or juices. It has always been for tea. I’ve written poems about tea. I’ve a hoarders collection of teas in my room, and a separate collection of teapots at home.
There’s this antique shop in Oswego that I visit occasionally, and on one peruse, I was admiring a tea set. A salesperson came up to me and beckoned me closer, whispering that she knew something I’d be thrilled over. I followed her near the back where there was an elegant gold and red china set waiting behind locked glass. The salesperson opened the glass door and let my hands feast upon the ancient pot. She laughed over how I marveled over the craftsmanship, and told me that she only shows this pot to people that she can sense would appreciate it. I was close to buying it before she told me the price, and I had to remind myself that I’m a penniless college student.
In a building next door to the antique shop rests the Oswego Tea Company. If you haven’t figured it out yet, this post pertains to tea, but I’ll briefly mention the food. The food at the Oswego Tea Company is sublime. Back to tea however, there is a full two page menu of different teas where you can order a full cast iron pot of tea or a single cup. I havea couple bags of the loose leaf tea from the Oswego Tea Company.
In my room, my desk is filled with mugs. Some designs are coffee mugs, some are tea cups. But they all serve me one purpose; to drink hot water with crumbled leaves. Across the room is my collection of teas that I brought to school. A collection of Blue Ribbon, loose leaf from Oswego Tea Company, five different sugars from the Spice and Tea Exchange (lemon sugar, raspberry sugar, espresso sugar, dark chocolate sugar, and honey sugar), three different honeys from Sticky Situations (lemon honey, dark chocolate honey, and maple honey), and more tea in tins and boxes.
This may be a little overwhelming, but I’m trying to describe an obsession. Granted, the Oxford English Dictionary describes obsession as “An idea, image, or influence which continually fills or troubles the mind; a compulsive interest or preoccupation; the fact or state of being troubled or preoccupied in this way.” Maybe I am troubled at night by the tea, dreaming of it, only tasting the spices roll against my tongue. I certainly do write a lot of poems about tea, and own more tea than an average twenty year old should. I could easily be convinced of almost any stand point if you give me a good cup, and it’s the beverage I drink every day, to the point where I have a headache if I skip.
Tea isn’t bad for you, even in my abundant state. Any quick search on Google will display the high benefits of drinking tea over any other drink (besides water of course), but there was recently a study showing that putting on the kettle and drinking tea reduced stress. So there’s more benefits that you might have thought.
I leave my obsession post with a poem, just for your enjoyment.
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You’re My Cup of Tea
They call me the Tea Queen.
Not just the plain ‘T’,
no, I’m talking about
the leaf water
that boils to the point
that if you don’t let it seep,
it burns the top layer of your tongue.
Chamomile, mint, pomegranate, raspberry, peppermint, strawberry, vanilla-caramel, Bengal, chai, earl gray, spiced, Darjeeling, vanilla, citrus zest, honeysuckle, lemon, orange, caramel, violet, cinnamon, vanilla, strawberry-orange, cranberry, raspberry-pomegranate, fennel, green.
I’ve got all the flavors.
Each with its unique use:
heavy eyes guided to a chloroform sleep
startled flow of blood to the brain
the cool fingers resting on the forehead
stagnant stomach after a full day of work
accelerated metabolism until only skin remains, taut against the bone
I am the Tea Queen.
Drink to the point where my blood is
98 percent flavored water.
Drink to excess where pre-dried leaves plaster my skin
provide camouflage to mingle with coffee aficionados.
Drink until my eyes are the titian color
of the wrinkled bag nestled at the bottom of my cup.
Caffeine tumbles through me each morning, one cup two cup three,
my teeth yellowed, my breath sharp.
My crown is the leaves before they are grounds,
stiff and green, sharp edges laced through my hair.
I am the Tea Queen.
My scent the billowed smoke of the kettle on the brink of a whistle
beckons the addict closer and closer until spittle rises from the nozzle
and marks the devotee with the red stains of commitment.
I am the Tea Queen.
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Remember, darling, you’re my cup of tea.
