Further Technological Gremlins

First it was the blocks system. Have we told you about the blocks system? No? Well the WordPress Blogger now forces you to type everything in blocks that need to be re-added whenever you want a new paragraph. Or something. We haven’t cracked this one mostly by dint of bullying our unsuspecting blog into reverting to whatever was there before.

Then the option to align anything went off of the app for mobile. Which is broadly negligible until we wanted to align the poems for ease of reading. So off we relocated to the website. Only the website can’t align images, so back we went to the app. Now we entertain the Marschallin Cat endlessly by pingponging between the two while she waltzes around the keyboard. And anything we do manage to align centre refuses to appear for reference in the app. And the app would make it easier, they said! They lied, say we. They lied.

And all of this has nothing – absolutely nothing! – on the Becket-worthy sketch dubbed Waiting for Zoom that was our morning. But we digress…

In-between technological wrangles we stop for cups of tea. Today’s were both lovely. Probably the cosmos is compensating us for the mulishness of technology. DavidsTea issued an Organic Silk Dragon Jasmine, which is the kind of expensive tea we would never normally buy. It’s got big leaves, and is deeply aromatic. It steeps quickly, and goes bitter even faster if you aren’t careful. We were careful and got a beautiful, golden, floral tea for our trouble.

The other selection was a Summer Darjeeling. We liked this one so much we made multiple pots. It also goes strong quickly, but after missing the caffeine of a black tea midway through yesterday that was nothing to grouse about. It was just what we needed after the midmorning Zoom debacle.

And after all that, here’s a poem for you by Ted Hughes, who knows what it is to want to slaughter technology.

Do Not Pick Up The Telephone
Ted Hughes

That plastic Buddha jars out a Karate screech

Before the soft words with their spores
The cosmetic breath of the gravestone

Death invented the phone it looks like the altar of death
Do not worship the telephone
It drags its worshippers into actual graves
With a variety of devices, through a variety of disguised voices

Sit godless when you hear the religious wail of the telephone

Do not think your house is a hide-out it is a telephone
Do not think you walk your own road, you walk down a telephone
Do not think you sleep in the hand of God you sleep in the mouthpiece of a telephone
Do not think your future is yours it waits upon a telephone
Do not think your thoughts are your own thoughts they are the toys of the telephone
Do not think these days are days they are the sacrificial priests of the telephone

The secret police of the telephone

0 phone get out of my house
You are a bad god
Go and whisper on some other pillow
Do not lift your snake head in my house
Do not bite any more beautiful people

You plastic crab
Why is your oracle always the same in the end?
What rake off for you from the cemeteries?

Your silences are as bad
When you are needed, dumb with the malice of the clairvoyant insane
The stars whisper together in your breathing
World’s emptiness oceans in your mouthpiece
Stupidly your string dangles into the abysses
Plastic you are then stone a broken box of letters
And you cannot utter
Lies or truth, only the evil one
Makes you tremble with sudden appetite to see somebody undone

Blackening electrical connections
To where death bleaches its crystals
You swell and you writhe
You open your Buddha gape
You screech at the root of the house

Do not pick up the detonator of the telephone
A flame from the last day will come lashing out of the telephone
A dead body will fall out of the telephone

Do not pick up the telephone

Bizarrely, even though this was a staple of the Poetry and Cake Society, and we took it in turns to do dramatic readings, the same is not true of the internet. Indeed, a previous Tea and Poetry Advent series by us is the first search to crop up in our browser. Next to The Moon and Little Freida this is our favourite Hughes. Even though we know it’s probably more about how the telephone used to ring to let you know when a telegram had come announcing the death of loved ones (or that was always our read) something about it resonates with us and our everlasting battle with technology. Just us? Thoughts as ever welcome!

Tea and Technological Gremlins

This evening’s post is brought to you by the final straw in technological demons. But more on that later.

We got a lovely Rooibos from Germany today. This one was supposed to taste like plum cake, so had lots of plum, apple and cinnamon in it. In practice it’s more like hot plum crumble, but no complaints here. It had snowed again today so the warmth and spice of it was perfect for late afternoon, especially after lugging reluctant dachshunds around the ravine. We happen to think the snow is pretty. They feel differently.

DavidsTea, probably fearing what we’d do faced with another black tea, yielded another herbal blend. This one was called Merry Mistletoe. We poked about for the ingredients, and apparently cranberry and cloves are in there, but we couldn’t taste either. It pours out pink, so clearly the cranberry was in there. It probably needed longer to steep. That’s always our downfall with herbal teas. Anyway, we liked it well enough; it’s a bit sweet, a bit tart, and it smells lovely.

Inspired by the name on the Merry Mistletoe, here’s some Walter Scott for you today.

Christmas in the Olden Time
Walter Scott

Heap on more wood! — the wind is chill;
But let it whistle as it will,
We’ll keep our Christmas merry still.
Each age has deemed the new born year
The fittest time for festal cheer.
And well our Christian sires of old.
Loved when the year its course had rolled,
And brought blithe Christmas back again,
With all his hospitable train.
Domestic and religious rite
Gave honour to the holy night:
On Christmas eve the bells were rung;
On Christmas eve the mass was sung;
That only night, in all the year,
Saw the stoled priest the chalice rear.
The damsel donned her kirtle sheen;
The hail was dressed with holly green;
Forth to the wood did merry men go,
To gather in the mistletoe,
Then open wide the baron’s hail
To vassal, tenant, serf, and all;
Power laid his rod of rule aside,
And ceremony doff’d his pride.
The heir, with roses in his shoes,
That night might village partner choose.
The lord, underogating, share
The vulgar game of “post and pair!”
All hailed with uncontroll’d delight
And general voice, the happy night
That to the cottage, as the crown,
Brought tidings of salvation down.
The fire with well dried logs supplied,
Went roaring up the chimney wide;
The huge hail table’s oaken face,
Scrubb’d till it shone, the day to grace,
Bore then upon: its massive board
No mark to part the squire and lord.
Then was brought in the lusty brawn,
By old, blue-coated serving-man;
Then the grim boar’s head frowned on high,
Crested with bays and rosemary.
Well can the green-garbed ranger tell,
How, when, and where, the monster fell;
What dogs before his death he tore,
And all the baiting of the boar.
The wassail round in good brown bowls,
Garnished with ribbon, blithely trowls.
There the huge sirloin reeked: hard by
Plum-porridge stood, and Christmas pie;
Nor failed old Scotland to produce
At such high tide her savoury goose.
Then came the merry masquers in,
And carols roar’d with blithesome din;
If unmelodious was the song,
It was a hearty note, and strong.
Who lists may in their mumming see
Traces of ancient mystery;
White shirts supplied the masquerade,
And smutted cheeks the visor made
But oh! what masquers, richly dight,
Can boast of bosoms half so light!
England was merry England when
Old Christmas brought his sports again.
’Twas Christmas broached the mightiest ale,
’Twas Christmas told the merriest tale;
A Christmas gambol oft would cheer
A poor man’s heart through half the year.

Apologies for the lack of stanzas. The internet threw a fit, and frankly we just couldn’t face it. From what we can tell the stanza breaks for this excerpt of Marmion are pretty arbitrary anyway. But since it’s always something with this blog we can just about guarantee tomorrow’s poem will be Ted Hughes famous disavowal of technology! Stay tuned…

Loveliest of Trees

A much better offering from DavidsTea today. It’s a herbal blend we’ve had before called Caramel Shortbread. Appropriately it’s sweet and creamy, and tasted best if taken with a chocolate biscuit or two because we think what it’s really trying to mimic is the British Millionaire’s Shortbread. Luckily we had some on hand and a very pleasant elevenses was the result.

The German offering was similarly lovely. It was an orange blossom oolong, and while we hadn’t had this blend before, we had had versions of it. The nice thing about orange blossom oolong is that rather than go bitter it becomes increasingly citrusy. This one was subtler than other blends and more oolong than orange, so we didn’t complicate it with biscuits. But it’s still a lovely tea.

To go with it, here’s an equally lovely poem about the loveliest of trees. Today’s interesting fact is that the writer is beloved of fictional detective Inspector Morse.

A Shropshire Lad 2: Lovliest of trees the cherry now
A. E. Houseman.

Loveliest of trees, the cherry now

Is hung with bloom along the bough,

And stands about the woodland ride

Wearing white for Eastertide.

Now, of my threescore years and ten,

Twenty will not come again,

And take from seventy springs a score,

It only leaves me fifty more.

And since to look at things in bloom
Fifty springs are little room,
About the woodlands I will go
To see the cherry hung with snow.

Everyone remembers that Butterworth set this to music, but for an equally lively arrangement by John Duke, have a listen here.

For a more whimsical, reworked version about Miss Marschallin, ‘Loveliest of Cats, the Tortoiseshell’, get in touch. We’ll even sing it for you!

Coffee in Tea – Heresy!

Yet again missing the memo that coffee is evil, of the devil, and that probably if we liked it we’d drink it over tea, today’s DavidsTea offering is dubiously labelled Vanilla Cappuccino.

Once more with feeling, because apparently it has yet to sink in for the tea sommeliers involved, tea should not be combined with coffee! Sorry about that. We were moved to italics. The thing about coffee is that aside from tasting appalling, it drowns out whatever else is in the tea. Here, for instance, there’s supposed to be vanilla. Can’t taste the vanilla. There’s supposed to be tea in the mix too, not that you’d know it.

There’s a chance the German Rock Sugar could have salvaged this one. On the other hand, we refuse to commit that kind of heresy. Never mind we don’t like milky and sweet coffee Andy more than umilked, unsweetened coffee. It’s all so differently demonic!

(Sorry, sorry . But honestly, extreme punctuation feels warranted!!)

That’s two undrinkable black teas this month, which is a point of great sadness because we love discovering new ones. Mind you, we almost managed to swallow a mouthful, but almost is the operative word here. So take note. Nix the coffee and give us a nice, creamy earl grey or something , okay David? We have faith in you. Don’t disappoint. Anyway, this is supposed to be a TEA calendar!!!

The German calendar wasn’t this confused. The selection is Kaminfeuer, which we approximated into English as ‘campfire’ but the Internet says it’s more like a fireplace, but our German friend says is the fire inside the fireplace. She’s the native speaker so she wins this one, not least because her version makes more sense than naming tea after a piece of furniture. But we want it on record we were close. This whole German Tea thing is doing wonders for our working German vocab.

This is how to do tea. It’s a Rooibos base, but a very subtle one. There’s hibiscus blossoms in the blend, and when left to steep it turns the most glorious pink. There’s also cinnamon,apple pieces and almond. It’s a beautifully balanced tea. Funnily, no one was moved to include any coffee. Can’t think why…

As is tradition when the advent calendar botches tea, we’re trotting our an old favourite about how to make tea. It’s a great how-to manual that – and we can’t stress this enough – never once mentions coffee. Got that?

Lessons in Tea Making

Kenny Knight

When I first learnt to
Pour tea in Honicknowle

In those dark old days
Before central heating

Closed down open fireplaces
And lights went out in coal mines

And chimpanzees hadn’t yet
Made their debuts on television

And two sugars
Was the national average

And the teapot was the centre
Of the known universe

And the solar system
Wasn’t much on anyone’s mind

And the sun was this yellow
Thing that just warmed the air

And anthropology’s study
Of domestic history hadn’t

Quite reached the evolutionary
Breakthrough of the tea-bag

And the kettle was on
In the kitchen of number

Thirty two Chatsworth Gardens
Where my father after slurping

Another saucer dry would ask
In a smoke-frog voice for

Another cup of microcosm
While outside the universe blazed

Like a hundred towns
On a sky of smooth black lino

And my father with tobacco
Stained fingers would dunk biscuits

And in the process spill tiny drops
Of Ceylon and India

Christmas Trees

Today’s first tea has the dubious distinction of being the first not to land with me. It was a Chocolate Chilli Chai from DavidsTea. And just as there are people out there who will like North African Mint less than us, we feel confidant most people will rate this black tea higher than we do. We’ve never liked chocolate and chilli as a combo. Not in chocolate, not in hot chocolate, and not in this unsuspecting chai.

Chai usually has a lovely, natural spice that benefits from lots of milk and sugar. But the chilli here drowns everything else out. Even the chocolate gets a bit lost in proportion to the chilli.

Our other sample was WinterZauber, a Rooibos from Germany. And this, folks, is where a musical vocabulary comes in handy, because anyone who has ever attended a performance of Die Zauberflöte can tell you that zauber is magic. And they said Mozart would never prove practical!

So it’s called Winter Magic and is full of cinnamon, almonds (we learned that sued the other day) and cardamom, which looked so like its English self we knew it when we saw it. It’s also vastly preferable to Chocolate Chilli Chai.

The almonds give it a taste almost of liquorice root, and the cardamom helps bring that out. It could be overwhelming but the cinnamon and Rooibos counterbalance this nicely, making for a tea with zing go it. Perfect for a quite, fireside evening.

In-between cups of tea we put up the Christmas tree. It’s all of nine feet and a significant amount of Tetris went into positioning it somewhere where it would fit.

We’re quite proud of the end result, though. So here’s a poem about Christmas trees foe you to read over your tea. We are well and truly into Advent now.

Christmas Trees
Robert Frost

The city had withdrawn into itself

And left at last the country to the country;

When between whirls of snow not come to lie

And whirls of foliage not yet laid, there drove

A stranger to our yard, who looked the city,

Yet did in country fashion in that there

He sat and waited till he drew us out

A-buttoning coats to ask him who he was.

He proved to be the city come again

To look for something it had left behind

And could not do without and keep its Christmas.

He asked if I would sell my Christmas trees;

My woods—the young fir balsams like a place

Where houses all are churches and have spires.

I hadn’t thought of them as Christmas Trees.

I doubt if I was tempted for a moment

To sell them off their feet to go in cars

And leave the slope behind the house all bare,

Where the sun shines now no warmer than the moon.

I’d hate to have them know it if I was.

Yet more I’d hate to hold my trees except

As others hold theirs or refuse for them,

Beyond the time of profitable growth,

The trial by market everything must come to.

I dallied so much with the thought of selling.

Then whether from mistaken courtesy

And fear of seeming short of speech, or whether

From hope of hearing good of what was mine, I said,

“There aren’t enough to be worth while.”

“I could soon tell how many they would cut,

You let me look them over.”

“You could look.

But don’t expect I’m going to let you have them.”

Pasture they spring in, some in clumps too close

That lop each other of boughs, but not a few

Quite solitary and having equal boughs

All round and round. The latter he nodded “Yes” to,

Or paused to say beneath some lovelier one,

With a buyer’s moderation, “That would do.”

I thought so too, but wasn’t there to say so.

We climbed the pasture on the south, crossed over,

And came down on the north. He said, “A thousand.”

“A thousand Christmas trees —at what apiece?”

He felt some need of softening that to me:
“A thousand trees would come to thirty dollars.”

Then I was certain I had never meant

To let him have them. Never show surprise!

But thirty dollars seemed so small beside

The extent of pasture I should strip, three cents

(For that was all they figured out apiece),

Three cents so small beside the dollar friends

I should be writing to within the hour

Would pay in cities for good trees like those,

Regular vestry-trees whole Sunday Schools

Could hang enough on to pick off enough.

A thousand Christmas trees I didn’t know I had!

Worth three cents more to give away than sell,

As may be shown by a simple calculation.

Too bad I couldn’t lay one in a letter.

I can’t help wishing I could send you one,

In wishing you herewith a Merry Christmas.

December Skies Are Often Grey

It’s been a dreich day. Grey, wet, snowy – but not sticking snow, wet instantly melting snow. The dogs hated going out in it, we weren’t particularly excited about the prospect either.

So this morning’s tea from Germany, a Royal Flush Darjeeling was a welcome treat. Just the thing for wet, wintry weather. We didn’t bother with milk this time, though this was strong enough it probably would have weathered it fine. It made for a heart breakfast blend; robust, hearty, a few floral hints but fewer than the Darjeeling of the other day.

Later we risked a walk, and it wasn’t miserable, but it was definitely wet. Buffy has s trick she pulls wherein she limps if the weather disagrees with her, and she did thar lots today. It was getting dark by then so we called it a day’s early and I made up the DavidsTea blend.

It was North African Mint, and there’s not much to say about this one. It’s very minty…not that you’d guess. That’s really all there is to it. Pure, undiluted mint. Think After Eight in a cup if there was no chocolate and more mint. Now we are mint lovers, which not everyone is, so this was a hit. But we do often wonder whenever a calendar yields up these mint varieties if we aren’t supposed to brew them and serve them iced. We’re pretty sure that’s how Muriel Spark says to do it in The Mandelbaum Gate. But Spark’s book is set in a stifling Israel summer, not dreich, soggy Ontario. Frankly we dare anyone sane to drink iced tea on a day like this. We’ve saved a bit for the summer though, just in case, because cool mint can be lovely.

Here’s a poem for this grey, dark evening, with thanks to the fellow Ffordian (that’s a Jasper Fforde Devotee for those at home) who found it. Little did she realise posting it yesterday that by sheer, happy accident it would be perfect for today.

Banality

by Gregory Djanikian

There’s something to be said for banality,
the way it keeps everything on a level plane,
one cliché blithely following another
like cows heading toward the pasture.

How lovely sometimes not to think
about Russian Futurism, or the second law
of thermodynamics, or how thinking itself
requires some thoughtfulness.

I’d like to ask if Machiavelli
ever owned a dog named “Prince.”
I’d like to imagine Rosalind Franklin
lounging pleasantly by a wood stove.

Let the mind take a holiday,
the body put its slippers on.
It’s a beautiful day, says the banal,
and today, I’m happy to agree
with its genial locutions.

Woof, woof, goes the neighbor’s dog.
The sun is pouring in through the window,
heating up the parlor, the blue sky is so blue,
and the cumulous clouds are looking very cumulous.

I’m all for reading a murder mystery,
something with flair but forgettable.
Or some novelette whose hero’s name
is Hawk or Kestrel, a raptor bird
soaring above his ravished love.

I’m lying on the couch with easy puzzles.
I’m playing a song that has no accidentals.
Life’s but a dream, comme ci, comme ça.
No doubt, tomorrow I’ll be famished
for what’s occult and perilous,
all those knots in the brain,
all the words that are hard to crack.

Today, I’m floating like a feather,
call me Falcon, look me up
in the field guide under Blissful,
Empty-headed, under everything
that loves what it does today,
and requires no explanation.

The Fashion in Dogs

Today was an almond-themed day as both Advent calendars yielded almond-based teas. From DavidsTea there was Chocolate Covered Almond. It’s a rich black tea that no matter how long you steep it tastes primarily of chocolate. The poor almonds never stood a chance, and it’s a shame because we love a good almond-flavoured tea. About 10-15 minutes in we thought the almonds were starting to come through, and perhaps they would have more fully with a bit of milk.

Chocolate teas are funny that way; sometimes the creamier you make them the subtler they become. Regrettably we didn’t think of this until towards the end of our second cup. That said, it stood up quite nicely even without the milk. It’s rich and probably another dessert-type blend, but we had it for elevenses with chocolate shortbread. (This may be partially why we couldn’t taste the almonds.)

From Germany was a herbal or fruit tea, Gebrantne Mandel, which our imperfect German made ‘toasted almonds’ (the internet tried to tell us they were burnt but that seemed unlikely). A brief chat with the calendar-maker revealed the name to be caramelised almonds, which made still more sense. She adds a drop of milk probably wouldn’t hurt this tea either, but we didn’t try it. The flavours were just so delicate, and we were enjoying them so much that we didn’t like to risk it. Also, it pours out a lovely pink colour and we didn’t want to spoil that, either.

You do have to let the Gebrannte Mandel steep quite a while, though; the instructions say 5-10 minutes and we really did give it 5 minutes, but it looked unhappy with life and anaemic. It tasted and smelled fabulous, though. There’s apple and hibiscus (hence the pink) in with the almonds and the result is a gloriously sweet-smelling blend that tastes as good as it smells. And 15 minutes later we got a much more substantial cup. Patience is a virtue with this one, and we just don’t have it in spades when it comes to tea. We’re working on it though. Especially when it gets you results like this.

Also on the roster was a walk with the Dachshunds. They’re currently sure excuse to get out of the house, which is no small thing. They were also beloved of E.B.White, better known to the world for his children’s books. Here’s what he has to say on the magnificent Dachshund…and other dogs. But mostly the dachshund.

The Fashion in Dogs
E.B.White

An Airedale, erect beside the chauffeur of a Rolls-Royce,
Often gives you the impression he’s there from choice.

In town, the Great Dane
Is kept by the insane.

Today the Boxer
Is fashionable and snappy;
But I never saw a Boxer
Who looked thoroughly happy.

The Scotty’s a stoic,
He’s gay and he’s mad;
His pace is a snail trot,
His harness is plaid.
I once had a bitch,
Semi-invalid, crazy:
There ne’er was a Scotch girl
Quite like Daisy.

Pekes
Are biological freaks.
They have no snout
And their eyes come out.
Ladies choose ’m
To clutch to their bosom.
A Pekinese would gladly fight a wolf or a cougar
But is usually owned by a Mrs. Applegate Krueger.
Cockers are perfect for Elizabeth Barrett Browning,
Or to carry home a package from the A&P without clowning.

The wire-haired fox
Is hard on socks
With or without clocks.
The smooth-haired variety
Has practically vanished from nice society,
And it certainly does irk us
That you never see one except when you go to the circus.

The dachshund’s affectionate,
He wants to wed with you:
Lie down to sleep,
And he’s in bed with you.
Sit in a chair,
He’s there.
Depart,
You break his heart.

My Christmas will be a whole lot wetter and merrier
If somebody sends me a six-weeks-old Boston terrier.

Sealyhams have square sterns and cute faces
Like toy dogs you see at Macy’s.
But the Sealyham, while droll in appearance,
Has no clearance.

Chows come in black, and chows come in red;
They could come in bright green, I wouldn’t turn my head.
The roof of their mouth is supposed to be blue,
Which is one of those things that might easily be true.

To us it has never seemed exactly pleasant
To see a beautiful setter on East Fifty-seventh Street looking for a woodcock or a pheasant.

German shepherds are useful for leading the blind,
And for biting burglars and Consolidated Edison men in the behind.

Lots of people have a rug.
Very few have a pug.

N.B. The Dachshunds of Dawlish would like it on record that they too would tussle with a burglar if one ever came calling. Honest, they would. And they’d eat the pheasant too. Feathers and all. They’re very economical that way. No wonder E.B. White loved them!

Tea and Whimsy

We opened the German-made calendar this morning to Sommer Darjeeling. Following the directions on the accompanying Christmas card we poured it over a sugar cube and added some milk.

N.B. We haven’t taken sugar in tea since university when we befriended Brits who only put sugar in baking. But tea traditions should be followed at all times, so we followed this one. (For best result we’ve been told to use sugar crystals but suspect those of hiding behind another Advent door. Until then we improvise.)

And okay…we cheated a little. But it was only a little! We took the merest sip of Sommer Darjeeling black just to see what it would taste of. The instructions are there for a reason. The milk gives it a creaminess it doesn’t have on its own, while the sugar helps bring some of the more subtle tea notes to the surface. It’s a bold, bracing tea and it was exactly what we needed to wake up. Darjeeling is always the queen of black teas and this is no exception.

At the complete other end of the spectrum is DavidsTea’s Organic Cinnamon Rooibos Chai. That’s a name that’s a mouthful! But it lives up to it. Because we think of rooibos as warming-up tea, we made it after walking the Dawlish Dachshunds in the ravine.

It still looks like Narnia, as you see. But at least a white Christmas is a good omen. Or, well, we guess it’s a white Advent about which the old grannies say…um…nothing, as it turns out. Ah well.

Anyway, Cinnamon Rooibos Chai is perfect warming-up tea. Rooibos naturally has a kind of inbuilt spice that would lead the proverbial grannies above to say it would stick to your ribs. It dovetails beautifully with the cinnamon for a cup that tastes a bit like mulled wine but without the alcohol or a particularly satisfying musical cadence. But it’s desserty too; you would drink this for breakfast.

Instead, if like the Dawlish Dachshunds you have vowed to stay by the fire until the sun comes back, enjoy this with a nice helping of crumble. And for everything else, there’s Sommer Darjeeling.

To tide you over until then, and in keeping with yesterday’s optimistic note, we move from the sublime to the ridiculous. It wouldn’t be the first time we’ve used a parodic bit of hymnody as a poem though, and we miss singing. Besides, this gave us the best laugh we’ve had all year. Enjoy – but don’t read it over tea!

Greetings and Salutations!

Greetings from Narnia!

The snow is here and so is Advent, making it time for tea and poetry again. This year there are two Advent Calendars running; the usual DavidsTea selection and a home-made one from Simone, a friend from Germany who suggested we do a tea-swap this year.

So off we both went to make up home-made calendars, which in turn got Canadian Customs deeply dubious. No one could possibly drink this much tea, said customs, looking at the box.

Miss Marschalin approves if customers does not.

Miss Marschallin tests out the packaging. She approves of that too.

Customs had clearly never met us. (Except they have. That one time we had to ship goods from Britain. Remember that, Customs?) So Anyway, they open the parcel, have a riffle through, open one of the Advent ‘doors’ to confirm we are actually swapping tea and not, oh, say, marmite or something. Clearly that satisfied them because that was the end of it. And in fairness, I can’t really blame them disbelieving us. It was quite a lot of tea…

img_4718-4

You see what we mean. But doesn’t it look cheerful?

The first of the German teas is an oolong. While out German vocab primarily comes from singing and is, therefore, better suited to telling you variously that all flesh is as grass, some stuff about the moon, some other stuff about lovesick flowers and quite a lot of stuff about the joys of the daughters of Elysium, we’ve somehow turned that into just enough practical German to talk tea.

Hamburgs Hanseaten Leibe is a mix of black and oolong teas. It’s a lovely blend because the black tea gives it ballast and the oolong stops it getting too bitter, but without the fermented taste oolong sometimes that and that isn’t for everyone. Instead, this is fruity, rich and round. We drank it after trekking through the snow with reluctant dachshunds and it was the perfect cap to the afternoon.

The 24 Days of Tea, or what anyone else would call…an Advent Calendar.

Or to take the sting out of 202. It’s had its’ moments, but mostly this year has been one long forward slog. And while it’s true Advent has apocalyptic underpinnings – we bring it up at least once per season – this year the subtext is rapidly becoming text, as they say. So here’s a poem with a glimmer of optimism. It pairs beautifully with both of these and for an encore, reminds us there’s always a glimmer of light, even in the most disconsolate situations.

The Darkling Thrush
Thomas Hardy

I leant upon a coppice gate

When Frost was spectre-grey,

And Winter’s dregs made desolate

The weakening eye of day.

The tangled bine-stems scored the sky

Like strings of broken lyres,

And all mankind that haunted nigh

Had sought their household fires.

The land’s sharp features seemed to be

The Century’s corpse outleant,

His crypt the cloudy canopy,

The wind his death-lament.

The ancient pulse of germ and birth

Was shrunken hard and dry,

And every spirit upon earth

Seemed fervourless as I.

At once a voice arose among

The bleak twigs overhead

In a full-hearted evensong

Of joy illimited;

An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,

In blast-beruffled plume,

Had chosen thus to fling his soul

Upon the growing gloom.

So little cause for carolings

Of such ecstatic sound

Was written on terrestrial things

Afar or nigh around,

That I could think there trembled through

His happy good-night air

Some blessed Hope, whereof he knew

And I was unaware.

The Business of Cats

We’re tempted to hand this one over to Miss Marschallin, quite frankly. It’s called Valarian Nights, an not for nothing, but Miss Marschallin adores valerian. More even than catnip, and she loves catnip.

A funny thing about valerian; it puts humans to sleep but it revs cats up like nothing on earth. Valerian Dolphin (the one handmade in Germany that we had to replace after much improbable internet googling) remains her stand-out cat toy by a country mile.

So, Valarian Nights. Presumably intended to wake up your drowsy feline around the same time you drift off to sleep. Possibly simultaneously. Ever tried having milky tea with a cat around? We’re assuming a similar principle is in effect here.

Anyway, we didn’t give it to Miss Marschallin. Her schedule was taken up with murdering the carpet. It’s evil, is our carpet. It’s staging a coupe with the green chairs. They’re conspiring for independence, or maybe a Dawlarture (that’s Dawlish Departure, if you too were wondering) or something. Must be stopped. Anyway. Tea.

It tastes surprisingly of apple, which is good because we’ve never had much love for Camomile, which is mixed in with the valerian root for good measure. Good luck to anyone staying awake and drinking this cup. But it’s a pleasant sleepy-time tea, thus proving anything is indeed possible. Up to and probably including the departure of the furniture in a fit of outrage from the house. Or something. Look, I don’t keep up-to-date with Miss Marschallin’s internal politics. That way madness lies.

Point is, there is a veritable cat parliament out there, and they need valerian to keep on top of the murderous rugs and plotting chairs.

We’d send you pictures but the tablet is throwing a spectacular strop. So here is a poem, with pictures, and credit to Medium-large.com for managing to do with this poem what we cannot.

Poem by Kevin Fang, photo credit medium-large.com