There’s nothing nicer than catching up with a friend for tea and cake: a time for stories, news and reassurance.
It’s been my experience that drinking tea together has been responsible for many a revitalising conversation. In times of crisis, real or unreal, putting the kettle on for a cuppa has heralded a joint confab to solve a problem, salve a ‘wound’ or have questions answered: a time of friendship.
I’d say, I inherited a genetic disposition to drinking tea from my mother. Here she is as a five-year old, dressed up, having tea with her dolls.
Coffee just doesn’t have the same effect on me – all that pressured steam and long instructions pitched against the machine like “Half strength cappuccino with some water on the side.” Ordinary black tea, with its ritual stirring, slow sipping and relaxed breathing has been a mainstay in my immediate family and circle of friends. Being offered the best china, or guest’s cup make’s it all the more pleasurable. (Oh no! Is that orange juice?)
Of course, tea is not for everyone and that’s fine. We all have choice – of what we drink and who we have tea with. I remember my mother’s anguish in her forties when her only brother told her that his religious beliefs forbad him taking tea, or socialising in any way, with those who were not a member of his sect. My widowed Gran lost much contact with her son, daughter-in-law, 5 grandchildren and their children: my mother lost contact with her only sibling: one of the two branches of my mother’s side of our small family gone!
Hard to imagine … Tea is social and inclusive. It is a time to ponder, calm down and gather strength for what’s ahead.
Of course, I do have a choice of teas. Making such a cup last week, I was surprised to read this on the packet. Didn’t it make me daydream! Go on! Put the kettle on!
You know, Hodja was fond of a glass of tea and good stories in the teahouse. One day a tall man entered who was not from the district. Everyone in the place stopped talking and turned to watch.
The stranger smiled when he caught sight of Hodja, nodded and came over to his table. “You probably don’t recognise me … but I remember you. I was in charge of the border guard at … .”
“Ah yes!” affirmed Hodja, looking him straight in the eye. ” It must be twenty years since I earned my living as a trader.”
Hodja invited him to sit down and called for more tea and turned to look at his guest quizzically.
“I’m retired now,” said the tall man, “but I’m glad to speak to you … I know you outwitted us everytime. We were all convinced you were smuggling something over the border. But all your donkey ever carried was paniers of hay! We always searched and even sifted it. But we never found anything.”
“Tell me now, after all this time,” begged the stranger, “how did you make money trading hay?”
Hodja shook his head and replied “To tell you the truth … I was smuggling donkeys.”
At this everyone in the teahouse roared laughing, including the stranger.
All photos by Meg.
Hodja’s story adapted from one I heard Ben tell at our local TellTales story circle. (Yes, we drink tea there and the cafe opens up for coffee fans.)
Story Twigs My Imagination: blog by Meg is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-ShareAlike 4.0 International License