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Illustration by April Dela Noche Milne

I am a long-time addict. My addiction is not to alcohol, or sugar, or drugs. My addiction is to tea. I am unabashedly a tea granny. It needs to be strong enough for the spoon to stand upright – and taken with milk – no sugar. President’s Choice Orange Pekoe is my preferred hit.

Since I retired, every morning my husband Richard brings me (in succession) three cups of tea and the front section of The Globe and Mail – and in bed to boot. What more could I want? It’s like Christmas morning every day.

He acquired this habit from his parents. When we first visited England together, I had no idea this was their family custom. Imagine my shock when, on the morning after our arrival, there was a brief tap on the door, followed by the immediate entry of his dad balancing two cups of tea, milk and sugar on a stainless steel tray – stainless steel tea gear was de rigueur in their home. I felt exposed – but I also felt like the Queen.

For me, the first cup of tea in the morning is always the best. I want it. I crave it. I need it. And it speaks to me. It tells me how well I am. If I am getting sick, I don’t want any. You’d think this signal would get me to cut back. But it never does. When I’m feeling well, as is usually the case, I savour each caffeine-laden sip.

Three cups of tea is the optimum – four is doable, but beyond that my body starts to rebel, I get more hyper (than usual) and start to feel ill. Of course, there’s always the temptation – maybe today will be different! But it never is. Like a true addict, I never learn.

The first time I realized the strength of this addiction was when I was visiting a friend in Ottawa. Coming into the kitchen the first morning, I brewed a strong mug and then sat down with the morning paper. Despite imbibing three-in-a-row, this tea did not provide the usual rush of satisfaction. It didn’t taste like my favoured brand either. Only later that morning, when I developed a massive headache did I find out that the tea I was drinking contained no caffeine. Mystery solved.

I was first introduced to tea at my friend’s house back in Grade 10. Her mother Ruthie was our first real pusher. Our school ran on shifts back then because there were too many of us baby boomers, and the newer, larger school wasn’t ready yet. My friends and I got the first shift – 8 a.m. to 1 p.m.

With so much free time, we went to one friend’s house every day. Her mom was extremely accommodating; Ruthie had raised five kids and was easygoing. But Ruthie had her own addictions – cigarettes, coffee and novels – what a great role model she was! Ruthie introduced us all to tea.

At first, I didn’t like it much, though I did enjoy the warmth, the conviviality and the store-bought cookies that accompanied each mug. It made me feel grown up. We sat downstairs in the rec room, doing whatever it was Grade 10 girls did back then. What I remember most are the calls we made to some of our male teachers – back then, we could look up their numbers in the phone book. We’d call, and go into hysterics when they answered. We thought this very clever.

Once I got used to tea, I was hooked. I began drinking it at home. Since I never developed a taste for coffee, tea became my go-to drink. The wonder of a good hot cup of tea is that it’s satisfying all year round – even on a summer’s day. But it was my marriage to an Englishman that cemented the addiction. He grew up drinking tea almost from birth – little kids there got milky or “fairy” tea as their gateway to this delightful drug. Our kids did, too. Now, I’m trying to introduce it to our grandchildren. My daughter thinks I should just offer milk, with a tiny drop of tea but, personally, it’s never too early to get started on a good healthy addictive substance. Such pleasure.

The English are superb tea-makers and tea-drinkers. Not everyone would agree, of course; the Chinese and Japanese have many more rituals and varieties. For a British connoisseur, tea is always made in a specific way: The pot is first heated; tea leaves, not bags, steep for about four minutes. The milk is poured into the cup before the tea, with sugar added last. Personally, I’m not that particular. Unheated pots, convenient bags, even, or especially, tea-brewed-in-a-mug – they all suit me as long as the end product is killingly strong.

Over the years, whenever we stayed with Richard’s family in England, I found that the kettle was on constantly. Do an activity, then sit down for a “cuppa.” Repeat. All day. No problem was too great that couldn’t be sorted by a good cup of tea and an “ishy-squishy” iced bun. I was in heaven.

Richard follows many daily rituals, including having a hot drink and a “sweet” around about four o’clock. But, for me, nothing beats his bringing me tea in bed every morning.

Every year, I wonder whether I should finally break this habit. And every year the answer is the same. Some addictions are too good to kick.

Carol Town lives in Hamilton.

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