Boiling for Black

It was an event, the way Aunt Marjorie made tea. A production, a show. My front-row seat was the rickety bar stool at the kitchen counter.

She would swing open the cabinet door, the one with the spotless glass panes and the hinges that never stopped creaking despite the oil she rubbed on it weekly. The dozens of cups inside would shrink back as she selected her star, the same one every time: the glittering “World’s Best Aunt” mug I had gifted to her the first Christmas she’d taken me in.

Aunt Marjorie would hold up the cup, wink once, and say, “The tea is only as good as its holder, you know.” I would roll my eyes, pointing out the chipped lip, the deep stains. She would shake her head and tsk and say, “That means it’s seasoned, Lacy love.”

Then she would set the mug down on the counter with a satisfying “clink.” In winters, when the sun was low, a ray of light would filter through the little window above the sink and hit the mug just right, and I would sigh at the sparkling beauty of it.

She had one of those fancy electric kettles with a range of water temperatures, which didn’t much matter when she always, always selected 212 degrees. “Boiling for black, Lacy love.” I never so much as caught her looking at green tea in the store. And herbal? Please. She’d laugh in your face.

She’d turn the kettle to its hottest temperature and stroll to the pantry. (Here, when I was younger, I’d hop after her like an excited puppy and watch her browse the tea shelf.) After half a minute, she’d emerge holding her selection as a pirate would hold its newly found treasure: with a sort of protective triumph.

She wasn’t a tea purist, you know. It didn’t matter if it was bagged or loose leaf or in a pretty little tin or the cheapest brand secretly swiped from a hotel breakfast bar. (“The teas are meant for guests, Aunt Majorie, you don’t have to look so guilty.”) It just had to black.

If it was loose leaf, she would use her little ball tea strainer, the one with the bumblebee charm.

As soon as the kettle beeped, she’d splash the water into the mug in a hurry, as if it would suddenly turn to ice if left alone for more than 30 milliseconds. (I had heard once that pouring straight away could burn the tea leaves. She had fixed me with such a look when I told her that I suddenly remembered a test I had to study for and quietly avoided her the rest of the day.)

Then came the sugar. That was always the most comical part to me, watching her lug the enormous bag onto the counter only to spoon out 12 grams. (I gifted her a sugar jar to keep on the counter, which she used, emptied, promptly forgot to refill, and shoved into the back of the mug cabinet. I didn’t mind.) Aunt Marjorie said it was her strength training, lugging that huge bag of sugar out of and back into the pantry every day.

It was always 12 grams — she used a food scale. (“I’ve tried 9 and 10 and 11 and 13 and 14 and 15 and, Lacy love, they’re all garbage.”)

For all the exactness and ritual she took, it always came as an utter shock the way she handled the milk. No measuring. Pure chaos. Splashing it in without a care in the world.

That was my favorite part, watching the white dance through the brown. On special occasions, she used heavy cream, and it was like a painting come to life.

Aunt Marjorie would take her first sip after four minutes of steeping. If the instructions said two minutes, she’d wait for four. If the instructions said five minutes, she’d wait for four. If the instructions said four minutes, she’d smile and say, “I’ll have to remember this brand.”

It didn’t matter what anyone told her: Aunt Majorie never removed the tea bag or strainer from the water. She kept the leaves in until she’d drained the last drop. “You don’t find it bitter?” I’d asked once, and she’d shrugged and said, “So what if I do?”

But when she was near the bottom, when it had cooled enough, she would let me take a sip. And it was always, always perfect.

I watched her make tea every morning for nine years, until I went off to college.

I watched her make tea every morning of summer vacations, until I got that apartment in the city.

I watched her make tea every morning I visited for the holidays — first alone, and then with the man who put a ring on my finger.

I watched her make tea every morning when he left me and I moved back in.

I watched her make tea the morning my water broke.

I watched her make tea for eight more years, until she didn’t came down one morning.

It was after the paperwork and the funeral and the last casserole dish that I stood in the kitchen, my head in my hands, crying as quietly as I could, when I heard the rickety kitchen counter stool squeak. I jumped and looked up, hurriedly wiping my cheeks.

Luna had Aunt Marjorie's eyes.

“Boiling for black,” she whispered as she clicked on the kettle. And then she watched.

She watched me take a big, heaving sigh before opening the cabinet door, the one with the dusty glass planes, the one with the hinges that creaked louder than ever. She watched me gingerly remove the glittering “World’s Best Aunt” mug and place it carefully on the counter. (There were two chips in the rim now.)

She tiptoed after me into the pantry, and watched silently as I browsed the tea shelf, stuffed with enough boxes and bags and tins to last the next millennia. She nodded when I selected a simple Earl Grey.

She jumped back onto the stool and giggled as I lugged the massive bag of sugar onto the counter. She watched as I carefully spooned out 12 grams. “I’ve tried 9 and 10 and 11 and 13 and 14 and 15,” I said quietly, “and, Luna love, they’re all garbage.” She nodded fervently.

She watched as I snatched the kettle as soon as it beeped and poured the scalding water into the mug. The tea bag puffed up in anger, then softened.

Her eyes grew big as the moon when I tipped the heavy cream in. She watched the white waltz with the brown and she sighed.

We stared at the mug for four minutes.

She waited patiently while I sipped, and looked at me hesitantly when I eventually placed the half-drunk mug in front of her.

“Go on,” I said. “It’s cooled down enough.”

She brought the mug to her lips, drank deeply, and smiled.