Varnish

Summer heat lingers

Pulling back old paint, varnish

Erosion season.

Made a photo of some of my tea stuff for another site. 

Beverage

I drink tea. Have done since childhood, that was the hot beverage after being out in the snow, or just coming home from school. Mostly milk, enough tea for warmth, when I was small. The ratio would alter over the years. Red Rose bags, with the little porcelain figure in each box. Whistling tea kettle, large mugs, a flavor of comfort.

In adulthood, I learned not to even try and order tea in a restaurant. A diner might provide passable tea bags and a two cup stainless pot with fairly hot water, although it sometimes tasted of coffee. Chinese restaurants would usually produce a decent oolong in a pot. Other than that, I was simply ordering up disappointment.

Coffee I could never abide, and believe me, not for lack of trying. In Basic, as the only source of caffeine, or at least not sugary fluid, I once downed a half cup, and could no go further. Not sure why it gags me, perhaps because to me it smells of wet dog. My father would pour hot (instant) coffee over shredded wheat, and that had a stank to fill a house.

Coffee is always on offer in this country.

At the day surgery in Boston, there was a kettle on and a stash of tea bags of dubious age, but it was something, and I appreciated it. Usually, though, at work, there was no tea, nor a way to brew it, however low my expectations. At the hospital where I worked longest, there was a soda machine, which was not good for me. I tried to bring an immersion heater and my own stash, but it took longer than I was comfortable with during not long enough lunches. Never really worked well enough to balance the effort.

Where I work now, the coffee maker has a hot water spigot, which although not boiling, is plenty for oolong, which I supply, and a place for me to keep a ceramic mug. A month ago, our office manager stocked one cupboard full of various teas. Mostly the fruity and flowery tisanes, but also a passable black tea, and the spiced chai is not bad.




Yeah, not what I keep at home, but I'm being provided with a realistic version of my lovely beverage of choice, two in fact, by my workplace. A small gift that I'm very grateful for.

George

George be damned, there is not just one way to make tea.

For instance, this.



Which is very much like my efforts to have a nice, hot cup of tea the week we moved into the house. I would get the water boiling several times before pouring it over the tea. Then forget and over-steep to undrinkability. If I managed to actually get it to the cup in good time, I'd get busy and find it cold. Oh, I'd drink it cold, but all I wanted was a hot cuppa, and my own brain tripped me up, over and over. Got me in tears a few times, sheer frustration at my ineptitude.

When in Saudi, I was glad to have reasonably decent tea and an immersion heater to make it with. Nice to have an electric kettle, but also a gas stove when the power goes out. At work, the water is not quite boiling, but hot enough for cheap oolong bags. Tea can take many forms, adapt to numerous rituals, and remain a comfort. Bags are fine, loose is fine, mugs or delicate cups and saucers work well. It doesn't take a lot of fuss to make good tea, just a little intention and preparation, with a touch of appreciation. Some origins with a tea tree, as well.

Nothing wrong with a re-brew in the evening, so I can sleep.

Coffee

Tea is wonderful, tea is essential. Tea can be very difficult to find out in the wild, in this coffee culture. Warm water and a cheap teabag in a styrofoam or paper cup is common. Or an aluminum pot of hot water, a ceramic cup, and a small assortment of flavored tisanes and maybe one Earl Grey bag, with a few lemon slices, sugar and fake sugar packets and creamer. As though they should cover up the tiny portion of tea, which they find an unpleasant substitute for coffee. I have not tried to order tea out for many years, giving it up as a bad job. Except at Chinese restaurants, where it is always oolong, but at least it's reliably good. Indian restaurants only serve the sweet milky mix, which is probably fine, but I've never liked sweet tea. A drop of milk* I can stand, especially if I've over steeped a pot but I still want to drink it.

So often, I wished I could like coffee. But unlike most people, I can't even stand the smell of it. My father eating shredded wheat with hot coffee poured over is the most likely explanation - since that stinks of wet dog on a hot day. And I have tried to drink it, no one in the army hasn't. I'd have done almost anything on that duty to get some caffeine in me, but I couldn't manage downing a mug of coffee. D has tried as well, and had an even worse reaction than me. I did have some at a local specialty cafe, some Kenyan stuff, along with gazpacho, after a final exam. Not that I liked it much, but I figured I could get used to it. I could taste the quality, although it was not quite happy on my tongue. That place had decent tea, but the odor of coffee around reduced how much I could enjoy it.

In Boston, coffee was water of life, even the hospital cafe had good quality beverage. Dunkin' Donuts was not about pastry, it was all about the caffeine delivery system. I listened to others wax poetic, and I waited to get home to drink tea. No wonder it took me so long to stop drinking sugary cola. At this job, not only is there a coffee maker, two if you count the surgeon lounge, but someone brought in a French press, and a lot of mornings they do a batch up. At least the aroma does not fill the room.

On the other hand, the coffee maker has a hot water spigot, very nearly boiling. And I have a cubby hole to keep a ceramic mug, and a tin of oolong bags. It's not ideal, but it helps.





*Yes, I know. I can't explain this either.

Asian

Cardboard cylinder,
Pur-eh from the Asian shop.
Keep-things-in keepsake.


Used the first one to pack yule ornaments into.

The tree's home most of the year. Then into the closet. It only knows happy times.


Our dishwasher is lousy. Our sixth, in various apartments, the only one we can't get to work properly. So once in a while, we do dishes by hand, in waves. This is the last batch. After cleaning the fridge today, as well.


Air and light bad. Unbreathable murk, not even letting proper light through. Blue discernible directly above, thick smog down here. Moby doing a fine job ignoring.

Orientalism

One more day. Five days of hospital and Nursing Orientation.

And, honestly, if it weren't for the back pain, I wouldn't mind so much. I am getting a lot of specific information that I can use. Much is either refresher, or will not apply in the OR, where I work. On the other hand, if I do help out with anesthesia recovery - PACU, a little more of it will apply. Next week is when the real orientation begins, the charting, the timing, the procedure protocols, what they call that thing and where they keep it in this facility. Where the fire alarms, extinguishers, and exits are, the crash carts, defibrillators, restrooms, lockers, cookie stash.

I'm rather hoping they will mostly throw me in and shout encouragement from the shore, honestly. At this stage of my life, that is far less frustrating than a lot of hand holding and hovering. Scary, but far less stressful in the end.

Mary once told another nurse, referring to me, "Oh, don't worry about her. She's a pro." I stood up straighter from that moment on. Yeah, I thought, I guess I am. I've thanked her for that several times since.

Got off a smidge early today, so I am already home with tea inside. Got discount tickets through the new employer for the Arts Festival, which we will mosey over to attend tomorrow afternoon. It'll be a hot one, but that's normal. We will stay as late as we can, since I don't have anything Saturday. Expect photos.

Lessons

Staring at the fifth move in four years, we have learned some lessons.

Don't worry about packing a room all in one set of boxes. Mix it up, so if one box disappears, gets wet, crushed or badly shaken, not all of the teacups will be lost. Amid the books, put in a set of bells, and the small toy Gromit.

Use bedding, towels and clothes to wrap breakables, use bowls and other hard hollow structures to cushion them. Think of form and material, instead of normal use, when packing.

Don't be afraid to repack to make items fit more securely. Shaking can cause as much damage as insufficient packing.

Several breakable teapots packed loosely in a large box will find each other, and smash each other to pieces. (This was a previous move, from long, long ago.)

Small boxes, really, especially when packing books.

A tape gun. Oh, gods in heaven, a tape gun. Always. Will get lost every other time I put it down, but it's still oh so worth it.

Ruthlessly get rid of all excess stuff.

Pens into a zip locked plastic bag.

Don't move in three hours or less. Take at least a week to shift stuff from one place to another. Unavoidable if moving across country, or with movers. Gah.

Don't let D pack any boxes. At all. Ever. No matter how much you love him.

Think about what small, necessary comfort will be most needed upon arrival. For me, a mug, tea, and a way to boil water. For D, a glass to drink very cold milk from.

Spring for extra toothbrushes.

Spoon (Photo)

I like spoons, shiny ones in particular. I love the feel of a good spoon in my hand, in my mouth. The shiny fun-house mirror of the bowl. This one was a surprize.

Three weeks ago, I was getting low on my good tea. But I was too tired, it was too cold, so I delayed the inconvenient (like any errand here is convenient) trip to Coolidge Corner and the Indian grocery store to get the tea. Yeah, that was a great idea. I ran out this weekend, and had to make do with blah bags, good enough as a theophilline delivery system, hot, better than crap tea, but... oh. Despite the cold, and the sidewalks of churned frozen slabs of hardened slush, we got to the Trader Joe's, and the dark, narrow store with spices in bags, gods for sale, as well as loose tea. I usually get Taj Mahal, and did today, but added a box of Red Label, as variety, because I don't want to run low again anytime soon. This was the plan, before I stepped inside. I barely looked at the boxes, paid, left.

When I got home, I opened the box to pour the tea into tins. Only then did I notice the little special offer. As the last of the balled, dried leaves dropped into the tin, I felt for the "Free Spoon Inside." Sure enough, a nice little spoon, with their logo. Huh. I'm sure I didn't notice the come-on before, it certainly had nothing to do with my buying that box, or I might have considered getting two of the Red Label. Probably not, but, possible.

Well, Spoon! (The TIck's battle cry. Arthur's is "Not in the face! Not in the face!")

Moby had to check out his bed on top of his stool, jumped from D's chair in an impressive display of virtuosity. (I was vacuuming.) I also swept up the tissue drifts that were forming around the waste basket. I am still snotty, but not glued to the bed anymore.

Tea

Red Rose Tea was what my mother bought, little figurines in the box. When I was small, there was little money, so milk with hot tea in it was my winter, coming in from the snow, warm drink. Cocoa was a rare treat, made from cocoa powder and sugar and boiled milk, seemingly taking forever to cook. But tea was for coming home after school on cold days. I believe I remember the first time I had tea, standing by the fridge mom let me have some of hers diluted with lots of milk. It tasted so strange, I wouldn't consider refusing it. As I grew older, the amount of milk decreased, drop by drop, until I preferred it black. Tea was shared with mom after school, as we played Scrabble, until she went to get dad from work. An hour of peace and companionship, and love of words. Likewise my Aunt Evelyn would share tea with me when I visited her, often having different teas, like Russian Caravan, strong and bitter.

On my own, on to college, I made a friend who called herself a tea snob. Anna introduced me to making tea with loose leaves, teaching me about different kinds, oolong and green, Keemun and lychee (fithy taste, as is Jasmine.) I developed a palate, I could tell Jackson's Earl Grey from Twinings easily. Eastern Market's spice and import shops opened up worlds of subtle new flavors. An affordable extravagance even for a poor student. Tea as art and culture.

I would learn more when I was learning physics and chemistry and medicines, that theophylline, a smooth muscle relaxant, is found in tea (along with a host of other interesting chemicals.) Closely related to theobromine, found in chocolate, and in a class of chemicals called xanthines that includes caffeine. That theophylline is highly soluble in water at 212F, 100C, and almost insoluble in cooler water. That living at high altitude meant I was could not make my tea with hot enough water. Tea was science.

Decent tea was not easy, is not easy, to find in Salt Lake. The Mormon church denies it's members tea, among other things. (One of many reasons they have no attraction for me.) And those rebelling against their church go for strong coffee and alcohol, rather than the delicate deferral of tea. As I myself left my church of origin, as a bad fit, not blaming or hating, I respected the ones who left the LDS church as shoes they had out grown rather than as god that had betrayed them. I have gently converted several friends to the love of good tea. Tea as religion.

I used to suffer through holiday visits to my in-laws without the comfort of a hot mug of tea in my hand. At our reception, I happily kept sipping strong Moroccan mint tea at all times as I sat and chatted with all our guests, although I got little food that evening - too distracted, delighted. For years I kept a shard of the lovely blue teapot with white dots that the ex smashed the night I left -as a reminder never to go back- vandal, visigoth. D gave me a square brown chinese teapot one Christmas, oozes charm and authenticity. When I destroyed my expensive electric kettle doing something stupid, he took me out that day to replace it. He does not like tea, but he took the time to learn to make it well for me. Tea as love.

I think I'll get the kettle on. I live in Boston now. But you know that story.