Skimmed Alive, Earl Gravy or Peanut Safari, there’s nothing like making someone a cup of tea exactly how they like it.
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‘Corrie climax sparks power surge.’ That was the headline splashed across the Guardian in 2003. After a high-tension wire season finale of Coronation Street into which 20 million viewers were tuned, a massive electricity surge was sparked across Britain as viewers sought to soothe their frayed nerves with a calming cup of tea.
The surge measured 1,200 megawatts, which the National Grid reckoned was the equivalent of around 450,000 kettles being switched on simultaneously.
“Tea is the universal panacea,” my dear friend Zoe used to say. Our friendship was built around talking about the boys we liked, the music we were listening to, and the gigs we wanted to go to, over endless cups of tea. The way we took our tea uncannily matched the colour of the inside of each of our wrists. Have you ever seen the H.M. British Tea Colour Chart? It’s intended as a comic visual aid to assist with the correct preparation of the perfect cup of tea. According to the chart, Zoe is Strip Teas and I am Nigerian Sunset.
The weakest, almost inappropriately translucent tea colour on the chart is called Skimmed Alive. It looks like some kind of fresh milky hell. When I worked at Unity Books in Wellington, every Sunday we took turns making the morning tea. The manager was a Skimmed Alive. And while it pained me, I took pride in knowing how to make it exactly how he liked it. Bag in, bag swiftly out; merely a rumour of tea in the cup. Making a cup of tea for someone just how they like it is such a satisfying, almost intimate act. It shows you’ve paid attention.
There’s a six-minute video on YouTube which compiles clips from the many films by Mike Leigh, the supreme director of kitchen sink films, where tea is referenced. From 1988’s High Hopes to 2019’s Another Year, the offer of a cup of tea serves as a moment of relief from awkward silences when the right words can’t be found. In 1997’s Career Girls, it even serves as a motif for class, Leigh’s social realist specialty. When Hannah and Annie, two friends from university, reunite after six years, Annie finds that Hannah has transformed from a scuzzy punk to a powersuited success story. The first thing Hannah does when Annie visits her apartment is put the kettle on in her pristine kitchen, showing off a dazzling array of herbal teas.
When I was flatting on Auckland’s Karangahape Road, the kitchen was equipped with a Zip boiling water unit, so the kettle was literally always on. There was a steady supply of Dilmah tea bags. Dilmah seemed to be the gold standard of tea. At the bookshop, the only brand of tea allowed was Dilmah. When I went home to visit my mother and father, they too kept only Dilmah.
I was brand loyal, until I wasn’t. A friend recently made us a pot of tea. A really good brew. But it wasn’t Dilmah, it was Yorkshire Tea. The illustration on the box depicts a pastoral scene of very English-looking gentlemen playing cricket on a quaint farm. The tagline says, “Let’s have a proper brew.” I pondered this. What exactly do they mean by “proper”? Are they implying Dilmah isn’t proper? By proper, do they mean, “none of that foreign muck?” Is Yorkshire Tea nationalistic, racist tea?
I purchased my first box of Yorkshire Tea soon after that. Just the standard red label. Then at the supermarket I saw the burgundy label Proper Strong. When I eventually discovered the Yorkshire Gold Tea, their premium brew, it felt like I was chasing the dragon. There was no turning back after that.
A group of friends and I recently went to high tea at the historic Kate Sheppard House in upper-crust Ilam, Christchurch. Jac’s mum was visiting from Scotland and loves a good brew. As we went to sip from fine bone china, somebody said, “ooh, put your pinky out when you drink from a teacup!” The common preconception being that to poke your pinky out while drinking tea makes one look regal. But legend has it the act of doing so goes back to the French court in the 17th century and was a discreet way of indicating to potential suitors that you had syphilis. While it makes a good story, this is far-fetched. The act is likely nothing more than elitist.
I grew up in a household of serious tea drinkers. When I was a toddler, every morning started with a strong, milky cup of tea with two sugars. And at night, after watching Murder, She Wrote with Mum, we’d cap off the day with a cup of tea before bed.
We initially drank our tea out of Crown Lynn honey-glaze tea mugs. They matched the decor in our house, everything in varying shades of brown, tan and beige. Those mugs are collectable now.
But one day, dad came home with a big box of new Arcoroc tea mugs. Dad called them “tomorrow’s cups, today.” He reckoned the Crown Lynn mugs were old news and we had to make way for the future.
In his book of essays The Commercial Hotel, the writer John Summers refers to Arcoroc cups as “the people’s mug”. “Hard to break, cheap as chips, filled with instant coffee or weak tea – it’s the mug of the marae, the staffroom, the factory canteen, the church hall. It’s our mug,” he writes.
And he’s right. From the public servant staffrooms of Wellington and rugby clubrooms in South Auckland to my family home in Ngāruawāhia, the Arcoroc mug, made from one single transparent piece of instantly recognisable smoky glass, is a ubiquitous and egalitarian symbol of Kiwidom.
My standard-four primary school teacher Mrs Hales was very cool. She was in her 20s and had previously been a hairdresser. She had a blonde fashion mullet and played the piano. I felt special because I used to stay behind after school on Wednesdays for one-on-one piano lessons with her. They were short-lived, because despite Dad buying me a Casio keyboard from the Farmers department store in Ngāruawāhia before it closed down, I didn’t practice. It wasn’t because I was lazy, it was because I couldn’t get my head around reading music.
On the day of my last piano lesson, Mrs Hales handed me an empty Arcoroc mug and asked me to take it over to the staffroom. “What was in it?” I asked. “Tea,” she replied. While I was walking to the staffroom, I instinctively sniffed the mug. I smelled rum. I recognised the smell because my older sister used to buy 1.5 litre bottles of Coke, tip out half and fill the rest up with rum, walking around town with her glossy long black curls, feathery fringe, and Kate Bush eyeliner, swigging in broad daylight from the innocent-looking vessel.
Years later, when I was helping pack up mum and dad’s house to get it ready for sale – sorting through 55 years worth of ephemera from an archive of sorrow – I soon learned they had kept everything. Every birthday and Christmas card ever sent to them, every single one of my childhood soft toys, dolls and books. And those honey-glaze mugs I thought about for years but assumed had been turfed out. I have them in my house now, at the back of the cupboard because they don’t match my calming sage green interiors. But I like knowing they’re there.
On Sunday mornings when I was growing up, mum used to make her special Indian spiced tea which gently simmered in a saucepan on the stove. A warming combination of tea, milk, cinnamon, cloves, cardamom, black pepper and other spices, hers was the richest, most delicious chai I have ever tasted. You can buy chai tea bags in supermarkets now, and cafes serve a westernised (bland) version of it. But they all taste like a puddle that’s been heated up.
When my mother died, the aunties came back to our place after the funeral to serve afternoon tea. It was hard to believe that only hours before in the same sitting room, we had sat around her coffin to see her one last time. I remember how when the coffin lid was opened, everyone in the room gasped. She looked so beautiful. My other sister hadn’t liked the way the mortician had done mum’s makeup, so we tweaked it ourselves before they brought mum home for the final goodbye. She was wearing a silvery sari and exquisitely elaborate gold jewellery.
Later, as we gathered around for afternoon tea, everything felt robotic, forced and silent. My dad said quietly, “this tea isn’t as good as your mum’s, eh?” He was right of course, but it didn’t matter. People had shown up for us. Simply making someone a cup of tea is the ultimate act of care.