Long-term residents of Melbourne, like myself, are very familiar with that city’s world-famous coffee culture. But, despite their traditional coffee pot shape, the silver pots in front of my daughter and I contained tea and extra boiling water. (This was a special birthday celebration - hence my glass of champagne.)
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| High tea for two, in Melbourne |
I was raised in a family of tea-drinkers, where the pot was warmed before adding the tea leaves and the water was added to the warmed pot straight off the boil. We used a tea strainer and a teapot cosy. We emptied the teapot of its cold contents by tipping the dregs onto acid-tolerant plants in our garden.
As an adult I never make coffee at home, only tea, but as I live alone I’ve succumbed to the convenience of tea bags.
The characters in my stories tend to be tea-drinkers too. Take these examples from ‘Retreat into Paradise’. In Chapter 3, city-slicker Hannah wakes up to her first morning in the country:
Needing a mild injection of caffeine, she made a cup of tea. Her friends back in Melbourne, all coffee-drinkers, often laughed at her old-fashioned ways. The melodious warbling of the magpies enticed her outside, to listen to their glorious welcome to the new day. She sat at the corner of her balcony, cradling her cup, still in her nightshirt and flip-flops, still a bit forlorn despite the magical sound of the birds. Beyond the pool and the valley below, little wisps of mist defined the course of the river in the distance.
It was all so different. Should I unpack, or should I get out of here? What was I thinking? She recalled last night. Instead of feeding a friendly cat, I’m suddenly dealing with a spitting cat … Pat. She scanned her surrounds. How will I cope with country life? Snakes in the house. Spiders in that pool. Those big cows of Pat’s mooing over there. From her corner position she could see them, and she glared in their direction as she took a sip of her tea, as if glaring would make them vanish from her sight.
The hot liquid sliding down her throat and the early morning light bathing the serene landscape gradually soothed her. She remembered why she’d come to Wallumatta Farm. She’d managed to deal with Alex, to dispatch him from her life. She could deal with Pat. Good old Pat. Of course she could. Philip? Perhaps not. He was far more attractive than any man should be.
View from Hannah's Balcony
In Chapter 4, Hannah’s new neighbour Pat calls in unexpectedly:
‘Hello, Hannah. Since it’s too hot to be out in the paddocks at this time of day, I thought I’d take you up on that coffee offer.’ She surveyed Hannah’s sweaty face, dirty damp clothes and dusty boots at the same time as she sniffed the air. Her eyes swivelled towards the freshly turned earth and pointed to the new garden. ‘Been busy, I see. Philip will be impressed.’
‘Just beautifying that particular patch for my own pleasure and enjoyment.’ Hannah had no wish to enter a game of competition over Philip. ‘I’ll put the kettle on. Coffee, or would you prefer tea?’
‘Tea, thanks.’
‘Tea bag okay?’ Pat nodded. ‘Wait here on the verandah, in the shade. I won’t be long.’
A few minutes later Hannah returned bearing the tray with two bone china mugs of tea, milk in a jug, sugar in a bowl, a box of tissues for wiping sticky fingers and a small plate of sweet temptations. Indulging her own sweet tooth, she’d purchased a few assorted slices at the bakery while in town. Cut into quarters, they made tempting bite-sized offerings. Her mother had taught her something about style as a hostess, even if her cooking skills were a bit rusty.
Pat stared at the tray resting on the table. ‘You like to play ladies, I see.’
Hannah decided to let that sharp comment go through to the keeper. They took their cups and settled into an awkward silence.
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