If it hadn’t been for in-person church yesterday we’d be doing that thing where we miscalculate the days of the week on the basis they all end n Y. Working on Sunday is tricksy like that. No wonder our Presbyterian ancestors had a thing against it.
Today was otherwise unremarkable. In the morning it was miserable, cold and rainy. As of writing, it is clear, cold and has recently snowed. We tell you, if this keeps up the Dawlish Dachshunds will decamp for sunnier climes.
Somewhere with hot weather and cool mint tea. Speaking of, we had warm mint tea this evening. David’s Tea North Star, specifically. It’s a curious blend of mint, orange and some kind of candied star.
Hot mint tea can be tricky, a bit like working on Sundays, because it really does taste better cold. On the other hand, see above about the weather. And this isn’t your standard mint tea. The orange in it works much better hot. It also works here in that it stops the mint becoming overwhelming.
It’s a funny thing, but we like mint in just about everything except hot tea. On it’s own its overpowering and can taste a bit too much of the smell of Vick’s Vapo Rub. In North Star the orange offers a nice counterpoint, and the longer you let it steep, the more potent the orange becomes. That’s one of our favourite things about teas with orange. They never get too strong.
We do think David’s Tea could dial back the candied baubles, though. They vacillate between being murder to scrub out of the infuser and making the tea too sweet. But here again it complements the mint, making for a well-balanced tea.
Inspired by the name of tonight’s tea we went looking for poems about the North Star. We can still pick it out on clear summer nights, along with half a dozen other constellations. We’re not sure this is exactly what we set out to find, but it left an impression. So, pour a cup of tea and enjoy
The North Star Whispers to the Blacksmith’s Son
Vachal Lindsay
The North Star whispers: “You are one
Of those whose course no chance can change.
You blunder, but are not undone,
Your spirit-task is fixed and strange.
“When here you walk, a bloodless shade,
A singer all men else forget.
Your chants of hammer, forge and spade
Will move the prarie-village yet.
“That young, stiff-necked, reviling town
Beholds your fancies on her walls,
And paints them out or tears them down,
Or bars them from her feasting halls.
“Yet shall the fragments still remain;
Yet shall remain some watch-tower strong
That ivy-vines will not disdain,
Haunted and trembling with your song.
“Your flambeau in the dusk shall burn,
Flame high in storms, flame white and clear;
Your ghost in gleaming robes return
And burn a deathless incense here.”
Chorister at Home 