The Disappearance of Low Tea

“Oh, I’m sorry!” she exclaimed as her cup of tea brushed against mine by accident. Her words took my breath away.

It had been a while since I had been living at my parents’. Work could be done remotely. Covid, despite its insistence on social distancing, drew people to live with each other rather than having to face months of solitude alone. Besides, I always loved staying with Mommie Dearest.

This was both good and bad. Good that she and I fit like a tea cozy on a teapot. It took no time for us to fall into a predictable and comfortable routine. Each of us knowing our roles since my childhood. Did I say each? Sorry. I meant I.

Bad? Well, bad because I never got to be a part of defining those roles. And even as I came of age, it was clear who wrote the rules and who abided by them.

My parents are Old World. It took me a while to understand why people in high school would chuckle when I would mention having low tea like it was a totally normal thing to do. Our late-afternoon family tradition of it was as familiar to me as the rules.

And just like the rules, I became adept at following the intricacies of Mommie Dearest’s tea preferences to the letter. The teabag has to be placed in the cup of cold water and then microwaved until boiling. One stands by the microwave to see the first bubbling. I say first. One turns the microwave off and pauses. One restarts for a second boil. Stop again and allow to rest. And recommence for a third boil. One removes the cup and adds milk until one achieves the right color. One puts the cup back into the microwave. One heats the concoction for another twenty-three seconds. One adds half a sachet of stevia sweetener. One delivers the cup, teabag still in cup, along with the snacks, with no delay lest the tea should fall below two hundred degrees.

This was the time I loved most with Mommie Dearest. She was too busy or too uninterested during the rest of the day to converse, to touch base, to care to talk. But at low tea, we would talk about almost everything under the sun. We shared opinions and viewpoints. I got to have Mommie Dearest all to myself.

Did I say almost? I am pretty sure I did. Despite the dazzling topics of our conversations, the rules were still in effect. I was not to talk about personal problems. “And whose fault is that?” I was not to mention my sexuality. “Can we just not talk about that?” I was not to mention issues affecting the family as a whole. Those priceless Persian carpets were not there for decor. They were there for sweeping underneath uncomfortable concerns. As a sucker for intellectual deep dives, asking a theological question would often result in a look of disdain. “Religion isn’t supposed to make sense,” Mommie Dearest once said. I was breaking the rules, especially during a time that was supposed to be pleasant.

Alas, as someone who wears his heart on his sleeve, who loves a good conversation, and who loves Mommie Dearest more than all of that and more, as noted above, I would often slip up. This was not only not good, but could actually be disastrous. This was against the rules. Breaking the rules requires that the offender be charged for his crimes, made to feel dirty about them, and feel small— not in attempt to be uncompassionate — but rather to make sure the like does not happen again. It helps when the judge, jury, and executioner are one and the same.

And before this seems like some kind of indictment against Mommie Dearest, let it be known that it is not. Parents make rules for their children that they expect their children to follow. Mommie Dearest probably just wanted a moment of her day to be spent in peace, which I always tried to adhere to except for the times that I did not.

I had never received an artless apology from Mommie Dearest before. That is why I was so astounded by a disingenuous one — even though it was regarding nothing of importance. Just one teacup accidentally brushing against another.

Parents will always see their children as children even when the latter have become adults. And when one has not gone through the necessary process of individuation during adolescence, it become painfully difficult for a parent to accept when it starts to occur later on.

But something that even rules are subject to is the passage of time.

An adult now, I voiced my dissatisfaction regarding something. That is when my precious moments of low tea with Mommie Dearest, my best friend, ended. It has been years now. And even though no one wants to be a slave to rules to which they had no role in negotiating, at least a slave has someone. A master. Someone to please. I was left without that. And given her position of power, left without the rest of my family.

It is hard to shake a childhood habit. I still have low tea. Now with Edward and St. Fidgeta, my cats. They do not care too much for tea, but I do give them a little treat as I sit down. But on the days when I miss those low teas with Mommie Dearest, even the cats do not pay attention to the treats. They regard me with a similar intensity that I had for Mommie Dearest.

And as I finish the last of my tea, the cats’ treats still untouched, St. Fidgeta tentatively paws at my lap. She knows that I do not appreciate her shredding my clothes with her claws. “Oh, I’m sorry!” I exclaim, the way Mommie Dearest did one time years ago. “It’s fine, sit here with me.” Apologizing for a crime that was never committed and not apologizing for the ones that had.