Randomness is my cup of tea
Today in the car Brynn asked me which is better, soda or chocolate milk.
"Depends," I said.
"Soda is not my cup of tea," she replied.
Reminded me how my girls used to always say that they "hate" things.
I hate the word hate. It's so, well, hateful.
So I said "let's say that's not my cup of tea."
Oh they laughed and laughed. I am, after all, very hilarious among the 0-8 population.
I demonstrated. I hate broccoli. Bad. No, thanks. Broccoli is not my cup of tea. Good!
They laughed again, but apparently it was suggestion just crazy enough to stick. My evidence? Today's conversation and the one million times we have now said "no thanks, that's not my cup of tea."
Last night, while hanging out at my mom's, she offered me a cup of herb tea. A hot cup of tea seemed like the perfect remedy for my frozen phalanges, so I readily accepted.
We talked and I sipped.
My mom has enjoyed herb tea as long I can remember.
I used to think herb tea was yucky, but I kept some in the house for her when she came.
Occasionally, I would have a cup, mostly when I missed her and it was cold.
Now I drink it all the time, because what's better than curling up next to a warm computer monitor wearing fuzzy slippers and sipping hot herb tea on a day as gray as today?
That's right, nothing.
My mom likes all kinds of herb teas. I like two kinds. Lemon Zinger and Mandarin Orange Spice, both with honey.
Much like I do toothpaste, I squeeze every last bit of flavor out a tea bag. Which makes for seriously strong tea, hence it requires honey.
My mom likes sugar in her tea. I tried sugar a few times. Gag. Honey or the hills, my friend. Honey or the hills.
When unpacking my mom's dishes after her move this summer, I came across several bone china tea cups and saucers. Not part of a set. Just individual cups and matching saucers. Each delicate and lovely with faint colored patterns laid over their bone white surfaces.
I asked her, "Why do you have these?"
"Oh," she said, "because they're pretty."
"But they don't go with anything," I protested.
"I know, but who cares. I just love them."
I don't love an assortment of things. I like things to match, but my mom doesn't seem to mind an occasional mismatch when loveliness is involved.
I don't know if she's ever used those tea cups. She often saves her nicest things for special occasions, which I think is silly. Hence, I use some of my best glasses - sweet swirl blue stemmed goblets -- to quench my thirst while I cook.
So I set out the teacups, so she could use them.
Honey or sugar. Use them or keep them special. Match or mismatch. Who cares?
One thing is crystal clear, my mom is, most certainly, my cup of tea.
"Depends," I said.
"Soda is not my cup of tea," she replied.
Reminded me how my girls used to always say that they "hate" things.
I hate the word hate. It's so, well, hateful.
So I said "let's say that's not my cup of tea."
Oh they laughed and laughed. I am, after all, very hilarious among the 0-8 population.
I demonstrated. I hate broccoli. Bad. No, thanks. Broccoli is not my cup of tea. Good!
They laughed again, but apparently it was suggestion just crazy enough to stick. My evidence? Today's conversation and the one million times we have now said "no thanks, that's not my cup of tea."
Last night, while hanging out at my mom's, she offered me a cup of herb tea. A hot cup of tea seemed like the perfect remedy for my frozen phalanges, so I readily accepted.
We talked and I sipped.
My mom has enjoyed herb tea as long I can remember.
I used to think herb tea was yucky, but I kept some in the house for her when she came.
Occasionally, I would have a cup, mostly when I missed her and it was cold.
Now I drink it all the time, because what's better than curling up next to a warm computer monitor wearing fuzzy slippers and sipping hot herb tea on a day as gray as today?
That's right, nothing.
My mom likes all kinds of herb teas. I like two kinds. Lemon Zinger and Mandarin Orange Spice, both with honey.
Much like I do toothpaste, I squeeze every last bit of flavor out a tea bag. Which makes for seriously strong tea, hence it requires honey.
My mom likes sugar in her tea. I tried sugar a few times. Gag. Honey or the hills, my friend. Honey or the hills.
When unpacking my mom's dishes after her move this summer, I came across several bone china tea cups and saucers. Not part of a set. Just individual cups and matching saucers. Each delicate and lovely with faint colored patterns laid over their bone white surfaces.
I asked her, "Why do you have these?"
"Oh," she said, "because they're pretty."
"But they don't go with anything," I protested.
"I know, but who cares. I just love them."
I don't love an assortment of things. I like things to match, but my mom doesn't seem to mind an occasional mismatch when loveliness is involved.
I don't know if she's ever used those tea cups. She often saves her nicest things for special occasions, which I think is silly. Hence, I use some of my best glasses - sweet swirl blue stemmed goblets -- to quench my thirst while I cook.
So I set out the teacups, so she could use them.
Honey or sugar. Use them or keep them special. Match or mismatch. Who cares?
One thing is crystal clear, my mom is, most certainly, my cup of tea.
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