A RECIPE FORTEA
Every morning when I wake up I go to my kitchen and turn on my range where my lavender teapot rests. In my teapot are slices of ginger. It’s where I make my strong ginger tea supposedly to improve my voice. I take out my mason jar, a small yellow jar given to me at a party, now used as a mug for ginger tea. I put three teaspoons of honey because either I read somewhere or somebody told me to mix honey with ginger tea for a better voice.
Then I add three dashes of cinnamon because one of my readers told me that cinnamon is good for preventing coughs. Then I take a lemon, cut a thin slice and put in the glass. Lemon is good with tea and I am also told it’s good for you. Into a little dish I put my pills. I will wash them down with the tea. Then I set my mug and the little dish on my terrace table.
At this point my kettle starts to whistle. I pour the ginger tea into my mason jar. I keep my teaspoon in because the cinnamon doesn’t melt and if I want to swallow it I have to stir the tea, get the cinnamon suspended and drink it. Then I bring out my morning basket that contains my journal and my pen. I sit and begin my journal, which I write almost every day. This is my morning ritual.
But sometimes it’s raining hard and I cannot sit to write on my terrace. So I bring my tea to my bedroom and drink it there while I am writing at my desk or when I’m putting on my make-up. I don’t take more than 15 minutes putting on my make-up — and that includes skin care — so sometimes I don’t finish my tea. Actually only once did I not finish my tea. Since then — due to the trauma that resulted – I have learned to drink my tea to the last drop, go to the kitchen and wash my mason jar/teacup until it shines.
There is a lizard/butiki in my bedroom whose presence I have always resented because I am afraid of lizards. I don’t like the way they look at you with their blank black eyes. I don’t like the way they slither around hiding then you only see their tail and wonder what it is. I particularly don’t like the way their tails move when they’re disconnected from their bodies. I don’t like how cold and clammy they feel when they land on your arm or on your shoulder. I hate them but I don’t know how to catch them. I know I can probably put fly paper strategically in my room but the thought of seeing a lizard stuck on fly paper is horrible. I cannot stand it.
This lizard in my room I have just heard. I have never seen it on the ceiling or elsewhere but sometimes there’s an invisible rustling at night and I tell myself — it’s the lizard. That’s better than thinking it’s a ghost.
One stormy night in August I realized I had not finished my tea because my cup, with the teaspoon in it, stood by my computer. But I had turned off the lights and locked the doors and didn’t feel like going to the kitchen anymore. So I left it sitting there and went to bed.
When I rose the next morning I picked it up to bring to the kitchen. There, stuck to the inside of the glass, was a dead lizard. Its eyes were closed. I wondered if they closed their eyes in death because now I know as far as people are concerned not everyone closes eyes at death. I’ve seen it on TV. So I wonder — was it death or the remaining honey that had blinded the lizard? His entire body was beginning to turn gray but it was also fully glazed, like he was basted richly with honey. What killed him? I wondered. Maybe it was the cinnamon that settles at the bottom of the glass if you don’t stir the tea and drink fast enough. I obviously didn’t finish my tea leaving enough honey and cinnamon and ginger tea at the bottom to kill a hated albeit innocent lizard. I just wish it died a happy death drinking my cold leftover tea.
All the hair in my body stood on end. No, I didn’t scream. I just yelped. Then I boldly carried the cup of tea to the kitchen. I removed the teaspoon — lizard was on the other side of it, did not touch it, I don’t think — and washed it immediately but the glass I put on the other side of the sink. Boying, my savior, my driver, my one and only man would wash it for me later. He would save my life as usual.
And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how I learned to finish my tea and wash my teacup immediately.
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