I drink a lot of tea. I drink tea from the largest mugs we have, more like baby beer steins than mugs. Gray, with brown and blue stripes, and handles large enough to keep my knuckles from pressing against the hot surface.
I have a wonderful small cast iron teapot that I used to use for masala chai. Then I discovered that I really can’t handle the caffeine in black tea. I could switch to decaf, I suppose, or I could put some other looseleaf tea in it, but I don’t. For me, the pot exists to hold just one kind of tea. Hope, it also holds my hope, funny as it sounds, that someday I’ll be the sort of person who can drink caffeinated chai without ending up in a panic.
Instead, I drink peppermint tea. I drink jasmine. I drink decaf black tea, with honey and milk, which is nothing like masala chai, and not really even much like something I enjoy, but I pretend because it makes me feel like a grownup. Sometimes I drink ginger tea, made with grated ginger root.
I drink tea because I enjoy it, but also because of the ritual. Slow down, it says. Be here for a moment. Mug, water, tea, honey, spoon. Nothing more is necessary.
I’m leaving comments because I’d love to hear about necessary rituals, writing or otherwise.