a mug of my own

on life & tea

My dad has never tried a cup of coffee in his life. 
To most people, this sounds preposterous. 

And no, it is not because of religion or because it stains your teeth, 
or because he prefers cold drinks over hot drinks, 
or because he hates the smell 
or because he had a horrid experience with it as a child —

Just because, well, he never felt compelled to try it. 

He does, however, enjoy tea on a cold winter's morning. 


——


Growing up, I watched him assemble this tea:

- 1 cup boiling water on the stove. 
- 1 Lipton Black Tea Bag  
- A dash of whole milk
- And a "Nor'easter snowstorm" amount of sugar
  (warmed, and stirred to taste) 


Sometimes he would pull out an extra teabag and an extra mug,
sharing his concoction as a form of love (that, I appreciated). 

And while it was delicious,
I think it filled my heart more than it filled my stomach. 
(but don't tell him I said that)


While it always warmed the insides, it equally felt as though
there was a missing ingredient. 

All of this "goodness", but no reflection of something that was mine.
All taste, and no original flavor. 

——


Fast forward to the start of true adulthood, 
I was packed and ready for my cross country flight to college—

Unsure.
Unsteady.
Excited.

And armed with, you guessed it, some Lipton Black Tea. 


——


As the four years came and flew, I went out of my way to try a lot of coffee. 
All by the hands of others:

Bitter shots of espresso.
Creamy lattes. 
Overpriced cappuccinos. 
Spiked brews.

Bolder and stronger, more indulgent and more controlling.

I liked it—the tastes,
and being handed a cup that I didn't have to fill. 
But nothing ever tasted like the ritual of making my own tea.

And I made a lot of tea:

Before my exams, in between meetings at work,
at night while I journaled before going to bed.

To prep for important presentations, to cope with death, 
to heal from sickness or to rebound from a long night out. 

Before hard conversations, after hard conversations, 
And amid a beautifully mundane morning routine— 
It was the warm hug I consistently craved. 


But without much thought or acknowledgement—
The small pot of water turned into an electric tea kettle,
And his travel canister turned into (my favorite) clear mug from the Dollar Store
And the black tea turned into English Breakfast tea
And I stopped buying milk
And I skipped the sugar


——


2,000 miles from home
And I eye the mason jar that hold's my father's signature Lipton label,
Smiling as I cut a fresh lemon wedge—

Knowing that my tea won't be as sweet as it once was
and maybe that's what growing up tastes like. 

And how fulfilling is it to see so clearly:

That coffee's a thrill worth trying,
nothing quite tastes like home, 
and life truly boils down to knowing:

Exactly how you take your tea. 

As always, thanks for reading. I hope you enjoy a large cup of your favorite tea today <3

XO

~Riley Rae