My tea of the moment is East Frisian, a hearty and robust tea from Harney and Sons. (I am not paid to write that sentence). It is warm and filling; the kind of tea you want when it’s raining outside. It stands up to milk and sweetener – warm the milk while the tea is steeping and add a spoonful of demerara sugar and roll it across your palate. I think it’s sublime and comforting and it reminds me of being in London with a crispy roll and a pat of butter for breakfast.
Is it overkill for October in Los Angeles? October is notable for hot days and warm nights and if I lived near the coast there would be early-morning-low-clouds-and-sunshine-later-in-the-afternoon. The San Fernando valley doesn’t get that cold in October, but Fall has arrived. A native can scent the change in the air, a hint of crispness, a lack of smog. The hills begin to appear in sharp relief in October and by November the valley will be glorious.
But it’s the first week in October and I savor my mug of East Frisian, straight. 4 minute steep. The tannins burn a bit but I feel my shoulders straightening and my brain waking up. I’m glad I moved to this tea a few weeks ago. It is just what I need, and what more could I want in a morning cuppa?
My first dog memory is our neighbor’s dog – I thought it was a Lassie type collie but I am told it was a sheltie. It had a beautiful fluffy coat, a long nose, gentle demeanor and vied with me for potato peels that drifted to the floor when our neighbor was fixing dinner. She (?) was sweet and loving and I thought she was wonderful.
Our other neighbor had a perfect teacup poodle – iron grey hair that matched its owner, perfectly manicured nails. We’d see him out in the side yard and would, on occasion, be allowed to take him for a walk. He was well mannered and tolerant of children who knew nothing about his species. I liked the dogs I got to visit, but our house had cats.
At some point my dad convinced my mom that our family needed its own dogs. We had cats that disappeared into the foothills, but dogs would be more permanent. Dogs would teach us things. My dad really wanted dogs. And eventually we brought home two mismatched litter mates – terrier poodle mixes. Pepper had a black coat with a white spot on his chest. He was assertive and active. Pepper was in charge. Ginger was the typical dust colored curly haired terrier seen in every animal shelter. Millions of Gingers look big-eyed through the kennel bars. The dogs might have been chihuahua mixes. In any event, they never weighed more than 10 pounds each.
Those dogs came into a home that was ill equipped to nurture them. My mom hated dogs – the licking, the barking, the mess. We kids had no idea how to be around them and had no consistent method of showing them attention. My dad loved them, defended them, hung out with them. Those dogs were HIS dogs. And we were happy to let him have them.
They barked, a lot. We lived in the foothills and there were many things to bark at (rats, squirrels, raccoons). They were not leash trained. On the rare occasions that we took them for walks, they strained at the leashes and marked every tree, street sign, fire hydrant and pole. Pepper was a “muy macho perro” who vigorously scratched the ground after leaving some pee. I’m not sure if they pooped on walks, but we certainly didn’t know enough to pick up after them. In general, we kids neglected them and they lived for my dad.
Unfortunately, my dad was not a disciplined person. He rarely disciplined us, and never trained the dogs. They were not housebroken and they peed and pooped with abandon. Eventually the back shower was given over as a potty area, but they preferred to pee on soft surfaces. The rule was “if you leave it on the floor, it turns yellow” If you wanted to take a shower, the sight of little brown lumps was enough to send you to the other bathroom. They chewed up my Jane West doll – she became an amputee with a scarred face after one encounter, and I’m sure they destroyed other things as well. The very worst thing they did was get into my brother’s chicken coop and kill the birds. He loved those chickens and devoted a lot of time to them. One day I came home and he was in a towering rage. I saw feathers on the ground. I beat a hasty retreat.
In the end, they were killed by neglect. Dad didn’t believe in neutering and Pepper developed testicular cancer. His backside was hideously deformed by tumors and mom finally made us take him to the vet for euthanasia. He looked at us, looked at the dog and suggested surgery. We took Pepper home and mom hit the roof. “He thinks it’s your beloved pet! Take it back!” she said. One of us convinced the vet that the dog needed to go and we left him there.
After Pepper’s death, Ginger came out of his shell. He lived a long time, matted coat, rheumy eyes, asthmatic breathing. He was a mean little bugger – we didn’t dare go near our father when Ginger was in his lap. The dog snarled and nipped, which my dad found amusing. I think Ginger passed while I was away at school. He was not particularly missed, although the house was quiet without his wheezing. It was nice to be able to shower in the back bathroom again.
For years I hated dogs. I mistrusted their motives, hated their moist tongues and stinky breath, and didn’t know how or where to pet them. I was firmly in Camp Cat. But then one day I met a corgi…..
The modern Hula Hoop was introduced in 1958 and for a while the country was obsessed with it. It was still popular when I was in grade school and my parents bought one for us kids. I quickly monopolized it. I could spend hours hooping in the backyard. The swish swoosh of the beads inside the plastic tube. The rhythm of my hips as I swayed back and forth. The gentle sensation as it started on my right hip, passed over my belly, then hit the left hip for a final push back to the beginning. It was mesmerizing and I was good at it. (There was so little physical mastery in my life that I embraced this wholeheartedly).
Swish swoosh. Swish some more. If it started sliding down I sped up the movement. Some geniuses were able to let it go to the knees and back up their bodies. The really good ones let the hoop travel to their upheld wrists. On TV you could see athletes working multiple hoops to massive applause and admiration. Did my sister strive for that perfection? I think her ambitions were loftier than mine. I was content to stand in place, rocking gently back and forth, self hypnotized by a spinning toy.
My parents both worked so we kids went to a summer program at our elementary school. I remember painting plaster of paris turtles, gluing pom poms to construction paper, dodgeball, tetherball, Koolaid in Dixie cups. I don’t remember the people (I was quite introverted). And then one day they announced a Hula Hoop contest. My sister assumed I would enter; after all, I could hoop like nobody’s business. It seemed harmless.
On the appointed day we gathered on the blacktop in the hot smoggy air with our equipment. A whistle blew and hips began moving. I found my rhythm and stayed in my own world. There was a little anxiety when the unfamiliar equipment began to drift south of my waist, but I was able to stop the trajectory and reseat it around my hips.
One by one the hoops fell. I sort of noticed that the field was getting smaller, but kept my attention on my own hoop. Finally there were two of us, locked in rhythm. The crowd got bored. The teachers were ready to go back inside and serve Koolaid. A shout went up.
“WAR! War! HULA HOOP WAR!”
I had no idea what this meant. Hula Hoop war? With whom? With what?
My opponent knew this game. She purposefully started moving toward me and someone shouted to me that the object was to use my hoop to knock hers to the ground. I had no idea how to do this. “Debbie! MOVE” someone shouted. I took a few tentative steps, still rocking my hips. I made her come to me. She thrust her hips viciously in an attempt to knock me off my rhythm. I still didn’t understand the concept. As a solitary, lonely child, I had no knowledge of playground dynamics. I held my ground, she advanced, there was an awkward wobble…
I won. My naivete kept me focused on myself and since I wasn’t trying to do anything – no offense, defense, avoidance…I won.
I was not the crowd favorite. The contest ended with a thud and a whimper as everyone picked up discarded hoops and trailed back to the classroom. My sister and some of her friends congratulated me and cast triumphant looks at the crowd. A teacher patted my shoulder. I was excited, nervous, awkward…I wanted to be invisible again.
A few weeks later our group boarded buses for a summer field trip. I was on the curb waiting for a full bus to pull forward so I could get on the next one. I heard jeering above my head and looked up to see the person I beat at Hula Hoop with her gang of friends – boys and girls. They were mocking me from the bus and suddenly one of the boys hawked and shot a loogie in my direction.
He missed my face, but scored a direct hit on my shirt. Snot and saliva mingled on the cotton and I stared at it in horror and embarrassment. The bus pulled away and I got on the next one.
I didn’t tell anyone. I must have borrowed a kleenex from a teacher to wipe it off. My brain was blank and my mind was buzzing. Who does that? Who spits out a window at a child standing on the curb? I was fearful and shocked.
All those years ago. My mastery of a silly childhood game led to my first instance of bullying. I had walked in a bubble, unnoticed, unseen, unaware. In an instant that changed. Not everyone was like me, not everyone was my friend, and bleagh. Loogies. Ick.
You either love it or you hate it If you have no opinion, then you drink coffee. earl grey evokes strong emotions. It is a thing unto itself. Servers, do not assume that giving someone a mug of earl grey is equivalent to a well brewed Assam or an indifferent generic green tea. It’s not.
I have instructed many ignorant waitstaff and counter servers that when someone asks for “black tea” they don’t mean “earl grey.” Yes, it is a black tea. It is a highly perfumed black tea. It is requested by name. Fans love it that much. “I’ll have earl grey please.”
Non-fans, no. We are haters. It’s not that we are picky or snobbish (those labels belong to the EG faction). We are not being difficult or imperious. We despise the taste of bergamot and just want some unadulterated black tea please and thank you.
A story: The year was 1990. My fiancee (coffee) and I (tea) went to high tea at a fancy high end Los Angeles restaurant to get ideas for our wedding reception. This was THE place for tea – elegantly appointed, delicious food, it was the shining high standard of the day.
We were seated at a table with snowy white linens, delicate china cups and saucers and silver plated utensils. The tea was poured. I knew at once what it was and sighed deeply. I asked the waiter if there were any other selections and he haughtily explained that this was the house blend. Friends, it was the dreaded earl grey.
I let my beloved draw his own conclusions – he knew how I felt about EG but had never been around it. I maintained a neutral posture as he lifted his cup, sniffed, tasted, and grimaced. He rolled the liquid over his tongue and wrinkled his nose. “is this….” he began. “yes” said I . The waiter brought scones and clotted cream and we embarked on a mission to make the beverage palatable.
We doctored that tea with lemon, with lemon and sugar, with sugar by itself, with milk, with milk and sugar. The distinct bergamot scent and flavor dominated every cup. It defeated us.
That cat got on my last nerve this week! I’ve been trying to meet him halfway – more play time, more treats, more focused attention – and yesterday he was a Hoover in a fur jacket, sucking up all my attention and then some.
I broke out the “cat dancer” and ran him around the house. I encouraged him to jump and catch and let him carry it off to his lair. I tried to pet him, but he didn’t want pets. He purred loudly and with excitement when I roughly massaged his sides and tweaked his tail. He leaped over the dog multiple times, just because he could.
He…jumped onto the kitchen counter and took a bite out of a rattan mat
…found a crinkly piece of plastic and tried to eat it
…ignored the “authorized” piece of plastic, found a small plastic bag with a button in it, and batted it around the house
…zoomed around the dog, raced through the dining room and flipped a rug
…lay down on the anti slip rug mat and nonchalantly cleaned himself
…jumped on the kitchen table and knocked newspapers off
..stuck a curious paw into my water glass
…jumped on the coffee table and pawed at my husband’s laptop then grabbed the cord to the backup device and tried to carry it off
..aggressively tried to steal hard boiled egg from my hand when I was trying to eat
…unsucessfuly attempted to scale the top of our new bedroom dressers from the floor and fell with a thud
I gave myself a time out.
It was an exhausting day. He plumb wore me out.
I made further unsuccessful attempts to redirect this wild adolescent energy and there was another time out.
Finally, when the evening wound down, I gave him a nice dish of moist food and tried to get him to retire for the night. I had to enlist help and we tried bribery, force, and finally brought out the squirt guns to wrangle him to bed.
My last nerve.
This morning I fixed a bowl of kibble and added bonito flakes. I kept doors closed so he wouldn’t race out of his room to continue his reign of terror. I opened his bedroom door and was greeted with a curious face and a cat eager to check out breakfast. I sat with him while he cherry picked the good stuff out of the bowl and let him investigate the hall and closed door that kept him confined.
Finally I got on his bed and he joined me. He was happy and purry and welcomed my touch. He flopped onto my hand and nuzzled my thigh. I gave him love and pats and soft words while he absorbed it all as if it were his due. We left on a loving note. Thank goodness!
It struck me that too often this is my behavior with God. I get busy. I get overstimulated. I double down on the things that are disturbing my peace. I do whatever I want, when I want it. And then I go to church once a week and praise and worship surround me, I am overwhelmed with gratitude and love and I vow to do better once I walk out that door.
I am so grateful for His everlasting forgiveness and patience.
But if I want to mature and step fully into my Christianity, I need to do better. I can’t act out all week and expect others to forgive my bad behavior. It’s not all about me and the world doesn’t have the capacity for forgiveness and redemption that God does.
He sees me. He knows me. He loves me. I don’t need to act out in the world to get his attention. His is a deep well of love, forgiveness and challenge. Every moment is a choice to obey or not. I hope I’m beyond testing his love for me. My faith is stronger than that.
My husband got a text from a dog trainer asking “3 corgis?” We had just added Gemma (bella Gemma) to our household – She was 9 months old and bonded well with our older corgi (Owain). We used to have three corgis but after Gwennie passed we decided never again. Three corgis and two adults means the humans are outnumbered. We sold the Odyssey and bought a Suburu. There was only room for 2 corgis in our slimmed down household.
But this was a dog in need of a home. I was between jobs and home full time and my husband looked at me with pleading eyes and begged me to foster this corgi in need. How could I say no?
I drove up to Newhall the next day and met the kind neighbor who had orchestrated the rescue.
This corgi was kept in a small chain link gulag on a cement patio (Newhall regularly experiences triple digit temperatures in the summer). When not in the gulag, she was chained to the gulag. The neighbor had rescued her from a hungry coyote who literally had the dog’s head in its mouth and was trying to drag it away. After this incident, the neighbors called animal control every time the dog started barking until finally the owners finally gave up.
Apparently this dog was untrainable and the wife didn’t want her peeing in the house.
The dog let me put on a leash and a seatbelt and I collected her papers and box of dog biscuits. The neighbor and I exchanged thanks and I drove her back to the Valley where she got a vet checkup and a bath. She met her new family in a park.
We named her Fiona after a character in “Burn Notice.” She really wasn’t a feral terrorist, but she bounced into our lives with a bang. I had her housebroken in a week to the extent that she would hold her urine until she was trembling with the effort – yes, we learned to read her signals and gave her more frequent bathroom breaks.
She bonded very quickly with Gemma and Owain and the foster became a loyal and true companion.
I’m so grateful for interfering neighbors and the rescue community who reached out. She has enriched us in so many ways. Our feral one, #4.
There is a gorgeous-hunk-of-meat man jogging proudly through the Sepulveda basin. It’s a hot summer day and his sculpted tan body glistens with sweat. His golden hair flows as he easily runs up a slight hill and descends onto the running path. He is a glorious Palomino and it’s impossible not to stare. I see him most days, around 5:30 pm. I wonder who he is.
It’s the early 90’s – spandex, aerobics, steroids – and I idly wonder how he maintains his physique. I enjoy the view. I don’t think he’d mind – he’s wearing extremely brief running shorts and his gait is beautiful. I have totally objectified him.
The summer dissolves into a baking hot fall and still he runs. In winter he wears a thin shirt and those shorts – if it’s damp the shirt molds to his perfectly cut chest. Those legs – who is this man?
I think he must be a professional bodybuilder and I think he lives in the neighborhood. I’m pretty sure that maintaining his physique is his #1 job. What does he do and why? I invent a backstory – impossible not to – he is Mr. World and he oils his body for maximum display. He takes steroids because that’s what you do in his industry. When I don’t see him, it’s because he is competing – Switzerland, Brazil, Australia – I imagine he travels all over the world, first class, and drinks water and juice to stay hydrated. Those veins won’t pop if he’s dry. I wonder how long his reign will last?
And then I don’t see him for a while and my imagination goes elsewhere. Until one day, as I wait for the light to change, I see him. My golden man struggles to get up the hill. His lope has turned into a jog and he hangs his head. His gleaming blond hair is stringy. He is no longer king, but he is still out here. I admire his determination to keep fit.
As the years pass, he slows more. He wears t-shirts and terry headbands to protect his eyes from sweat. His body curls and it looks like he’s in pain. He shuffles down the street. I think that he’s paying the price for years of steroids and overtraining. I hope he saved his earnings and has a paid for home to live in.
He passed us last night. Despite the heat, he wore a watchcap, t shirt, hoody and shorts. His skin is leathery and his grey hair lies lank about his face. Still he trots – setting one foot before the other. He keeps his body moving…that’s his job now.
I
love my bedroom. The walls are a warm toasty caramel color, the
furniture is mission style oak, the floors are original 1949 hardwood
and the bedding and valances match. I made the duvet cover out of
burgundy paisley sateen and sewed my very first piping along the
seams. The back is a repurposed burgundy sheet. The valances are
covered in a coordinating paisley fabric with burgundy sheet corners
and burgundy braid separating the two fabrics.
It’s
warm. It’s harmonious. In spite of the large dog crates that say
“dogs live here” it is a comforting room 6 months out of the
year.
And
then summer rolls around. The blanket and duvet cover go under the
bed and we pull out the mother-in-law blanket.
My
MIL was a nurse who worked the night shift and on those fortunate
nights when the patients were asleep she crocheted to pass the time.
Her favorite pattern was the “ripple” – done in stripes. Our
blanket is queen sized and must have taken hours to make. It is an
electric orange and grey stripe dacron yarn that has worn like iron
and will outlast my lifetime. It is heavy and a bit scratchy and
requires a trip to the laundromat for washing. It could easily take
down my washing machine in the first few minutes of agitation.
I am a crafty woman myself and I appreciate the time and effort spent in making this item. I’ve tried, and failed to successfully learn the ripple pattern. Every time I look at the blanket, I feel an ungrateful pang because it is so UGLY. Those colors! That yarn! It’s so heavy! I kind of hate it.
But
I haven’t made a duvet cover for it, or swapped it out with my
blanket inside my tasteful burgundy paisley cover. I cringe at the
orange, but I remind myself that this was probably made in the late
70’s time period with affordable yarn. It is scratchy but strong.
It is unapologetically a blanket, utilitarian and strong. It was
made with love for a younger son who used it faithfully until I came
in his life.
I align the stripes and ripples along the foot of the bed. We will push it almost off the bed as we toss and turn and try to get comfortable in the summer heat. Around 4 in the morning one of us (usually me) will grab a corner and pull it up for warmth. This blanket works. And it is filled with memories of an iron willed woman who worked a difficult job and raised two successful men. I am honored to shelter in its warm. I bring it out to remember.
It is amazing to be able to get tea just about anywhere and specialty tea stores have opened in malls and on main street. Brands like Teavana and Tazo were snapped up by Starbucks. It is not unusual to be presented with a tea chest filled with delights when you order tea at a coffee shop. Herbal tea. Rooibos, Jasmine, White. All packaged in luxurious foil or crispy cellophane wrappers.
And one slot filled with Farmer Brothers. Or Lipton. The least expensive, common-denominator, rando “tea” on the planet. Pedestrian, run-of-the-mill plain white paper wrapper and a paper filter filled with crushed leaves and dust.
This is what’s offered if you want black tea – your basic Orange Pekoe (which is a leaf cut, not a flavor). The lover of English Breakfast, Ceylon, Assam, Lapsang Souchong or Darjeeling – that connoisseur doesn’t merit an exotic, luxuriously packaged, high end tea. We black tea drinkers are legion. There are too many of us, and the five packets of English Breakfast tea that came with the selection were gone before breakfast service ended. It’s Lipton for us.
Which, I admit, is better than earl grey. Lord help the black tea drinker who despises earl grey. It is offered with a flourish – we haven’t forgotten you – have some of THIS! (I could go on and on about EG but that’s another post).
Honestly, given a choice between earl grey and Lipton, I’ll drink Lipton. The flavor is bland and inoffensive, it’s a caffeine delivery system, no more, no less. Lipton is the McDonald’s of teas. At least you know what you’ll get when you drink Lipton.
But I tell you, tea purveyor.
It is a special place that treasures all customers, that doesn’t cheap out on basic black tea. That cares enough to offer a fragrant amber cup of clear delights. We see you. We will be back.
I am compelled to write, always have been and hope I always will be. Writing connects me to myself, tunes me into a different space and surfaces things that I can’t articulate verbally. The process of transferring thoughts to words enlightens me. It comforts me. Grounds me. It is a statement that I exist
I self published my first book before the age of ten. One copy remains in existance and I think I could find it if pressed. It is titled “The Horse Book” by Deborah Jean Swift. It is not about horses. But I was a horse crazy girl and I could draw a pretty good horse head so that’s what I named my first book of poetry. Hand printed and bound with brass colored brads – not that anyone who reads this will know what is.
Writing sustained me through a difficult and lonely childhood, a challenging adolescence, the first taste of freedom and six years of college. I married, started a new life, and slowly the urge to write, to wrestle, to acknowledge my self became less important. I never stopped but it became less vital as I leaped into my relationship, my career and my challenges.
But now I am called again. Called to make sense of my world through my fingertips. Called to that kinectic learning that doesn’t happen through the spoken word. Called to be seen.
Which is why now. This blog. This leap of faith. To reveal my self that has so seldom won me friends or allies. I am too big to be contained and I have too much to learn in the last third of my life. So here we are. Welcome.
Corgi and a Cuppa Tea 