So this evening whilst the tea was brewing I did the washing up. I could try and write an exercise in descriptive prose here about the blood red water I created as I slaved over eradicating the beetroot stains from the chopping board or I could think more sideways and describe the events as another tea was brewing. It turned out I got bored with the washing up and have used the excuse that there is tea to be drunk to abandon at least of the washing up soaking, or at least that’s how I have convinced myself that I’m not just being lazy.
Now I sit here with a cup of Assam tea from my SS Great Britain mug that is just what I wanted right now. My hankering for Assam lately was sparked by a taste test I conducted in order to decide which tea to try to infuse in my beer brewing efforts. Assam, being a bit maltier, was winning by a head until I started to think of what to call the beer. ‘Dar-beer-ling’ and such like puns around lap sang souchong weren’t quite cutting it for me, then ‘Assam O’That’ sprung to mind and the more malty tea made a sprint finish and took the line lengths ahead. Since then I have had plenty of Assam in the house; enough to require a purchase of another tea tin. Therefore, while the ‘Assam O’That’ was brewing I searched for a suitable new storage vessel for tea.
Quite clearly the beer took a few weeks to brew and ferment so together with working, sleeping and drinking (both beer and tea) I read some books. Most notably The Women by T.C. Boyle by recommendation of the guy in the book shop to whom I sold an engagement ring to. But also in order to make progress towards keeping my promise of writing up the journal from a cycling holiday I did some research reading by way of Three Men in a Boat by Jerome K. Jerome.
I enjoyed The Women on the whole, it dragged in places but you’re probably thinking that about this now. Three Men in a Boat also had points where it dragged but also seemed somewhat inconsequential. Perhaps that is part of the tone of the book and any jolly down a river or, in my case, biking holiday. I couldn’t care much about the characters because I knew there would be no peril; they would always be safe, and they were just bungling posh idiots. However, it was remarkably entertaining a veritable lesson in how to comically describe trivial events, even if they were not actually occurring to them at the time but just flashbacks. I now stand in better stead to undertake my own project; the project that resulted in buying a small cast iron tea pot from a tea shop in Perpignan, thus giving rise to the opportunity to write about things I do while the tea brews. Although, I hasten to note that the ‘Assam O’That’ was not brewed in a tea pot.
I don’t know what type of brew I would have to undertake to reflect the latest book I have started. What could possibly be a match for The Brothers Karamazov?