If I ever become an ex-pat, I probably would survive well in England what with my being a tea lover. I'm not quite as fanatic as they are, meaning I don't believe it to be liquid manna with heavenly properties. But I do enjoy a cup of the herbal brew.
Watch British movies or Masterpiece on PBS and you know the Brits solve what ails them by putting the kettle on. Broke up with the louse? Drown your sorrows in a cup of tea. Bad news from the bathroom scale? Tea has no calories so drink up. Got a haircut from a visually impaired stylist? Tea will make it grow back faster.
Tea is the Brits answer to Prozac. Tea -- the elixir that takes the edge off of life. Throw a warm scone into the mix and life is good again.
Last week I was one with the Brits. After an unusually frantic day all I wanted was to relax with, yes, a cup of tea. I brewed a pot of honey chamomile -- my favorite. After all, it is the tea Peter Rabbit's mother made after his episode in Mr. MacGregor's garden. I poured it into my favorite cup -- also part of the ritual. Tea in a styrofoam container or paper cup is utterly barbaric. It's right up there with champagne in a Flintstone jelly glass.
I took one sip, then another. Cross my heart, I swear I heard an "aaahhhhh". Undoubtedly a chorus of stressed out cells thankful for a freakin' break.
Never again will I pooh-pooh the Brits and their miracle brew. Now I get it.
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