I don't know for sure if having that slow cup of tea in the morning is a function of being, for the most part, pretty much retired. But it seems every part of the hot cup has become a welcome gift of the morning.
It is true, I am dragging my miserable ass when I roust out in the morning at the early hour of, say, eight. That too may be a function of age but then I don't clearly ever recall jumping out of the sack full of fire. I am just an ass-dragger. Each morning after stumbling down the stairs from this old Victorian I fire up the stove and get that water on. I appreciate the free natural gas that is always there. Ya, I could fire up the wood burning cook stove---really. It is so hard to imagine how up until 70 years ago that is the way it was---and they did not drag out at eight----it was sun up. So, I appreciate what I have, because I have tested the other way. I know this gas is a gift.
Hot water.! What a treat. Then there is the tea, maybe a nice Earl Gray, possibly a roasted Russian Caravan. The smell lifts up in the cold kitchen air, the smell exotic, maybe a smell of many ages. For me two lumps a sugar brings out the flavor as I shuffle off to my spot on the leather sofa in the front room. If I am lucky, the wood burning old stove is now warm and it will roust me from my morning trance. All is good.
I even admire the various cups, the ones I have made years ago while a potter. The there is the classic mug from our years (one week a year) in the lighthouse service. There are all little pieces of our history, all memories as I work myself into the day. Tea and the morning news, small talk, birds to watch, cold to curse, all gifts of a slow tea in these later years.
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