Still Singing

On the way home from a recent rehearsal dinner and bachelorette party, two friends decided to teach me how to play the "Either/Or" game.  Apparently it was a game invented in taxis in North Africa.  Here's the gist:  One player gives two choices.  The other two MUST pick one of the two they prefer and explain.  Then the next player gives two choices and so on.  Here were some of the most memorable choices of the night.

It started innocently enough.  I'll put my choices in parentheses.

• Blue Jay or Robin? (Initial reaction:  Ugh.  Neither.  I was quickly told I MUST pick one.  Blue Jay)
• Backstreet or N'Sync? (Backstreet)
• Caviar or Escargot? (Caviar)

Then it moved toward the exotic:

• Cous cous or Harrira? (Harrira)
• Marjane or La bel Vie? (La bel Vie)
• Fes or Marrakech? (Marrakech)    

Then it turned religious:

• Old Testament or New Testament? (New Testament)
• Peter or Paul? (Paul)

Then it turned risque:

• Boxers or Briefs? (Boxers)

And finally someone opened the floodgate:

• Sex or Chocolate? (Sex)

It's hard to believe that I have been gone from North Africa for more than three full years.  It seems like it was just yesterday.  I can still smell the cumin and cinnamon used in the delicious repertoire of food, taste the pain du chocolat melting in my mouth, hear the crackling call to prayer from the minarets, and feel the cool tile beneath my feet in my apartment.  I'm glad God gave us senses.

I used to have a different blog.  It served a purpose.  I don’t think I’ve written on it since November.  I lost focus.  I found Facebook.  What can I say?  When I thought about the reasons for the famine in writing, I realized that I’m a completely different person.  I’m not the same as I was then.  A lot has happened. 

It was time for a new blog that illustrated a new time in my life.  I hope it truly portrays who I am.

In a college class almost ten years ago, my favorite professor gave us an option of creating a life portfolio instead of an exam.  It was to be a collection of our own writing along with pictures from our past -- an exploration into what made us who we are.  This was, truly, my cup of tea.


The following is one of the stories that made it into my project.  It is my attempt at trying to record a memory that I never want to forget.  And, more importantly, the inspiration for the idea of my blog's theme...

Early on a salted sun morning, my eighteen year-old feet carried me excitedly through the dew-bathed grass to my grandparents' condo.  It was the first morning of my vacation.  I was finally here, the place my soul longed for all year long  I was on an urgent mission.  I slid the glass door open and pushed the shades to the side.  True to tradition, my grandmother sat with her favorite sky-blue robe on at the breakfast table.  The newspaper my grandfather had faithfully purchased was draped like a black and white cloth in front of her.  She read while sipping from the steaming mug of black coffee in her hand.  I paused briefly.  Why should this scene be any different?  Through dreamy childhood flashbacks, I fondly remembered padding down the hall at the house on the mountain many mornings in my pink princess pajamas to find her at the wooden breakfast table in the exact same manner.


I was brought back to reality with the sound of her voice.  "You're a hair too late!  Your dad and Jimmo got tired of waiting.  They've already left."


I groaned and rolled my eyes.  "Char Char!  They could have waited two more minutes!"  And with that I hit the backdoor and sprinted across the parking lot.  Breakfast was my favorite meal of the day.  And breakfast at the new cafe across from the beach with my dad and grandfather wasn't to be missed.  I quickly looked both ways and bolted across the road.  Already the sun was fuming, and the asphalt gave off a burning smell.  The new shopping center looked small and quaint.  I spotted the cafe immediately.  Through the large tinted windows I could barely make out the forms of my grandfather and dad.  They were leisurely chatting at a round table, and with the look on their faces, I could tell they were thoroughly enjoying every drop of their coffee.


I gathered my composure.  The tiny bell on the door jingled as I breezed through.  Little did I know that what was about to happen would forever change my life.


I easily chose my bagel -- onion with cream cheese.  But what to drink?  My nose crinkled and tongue curled in disgust at the thought of coffee.  Although I wanted to appear grown-up, I just couldn't force my taste buds to undergo such bitter torture -- even if I did love the smell.  Jimmo, observing my indecisiveness, casually spoke in his gruff voice, "Why don't you try some hot tea?"


"Hot tea?"  I smirked.  Where I come from, tea exists in only one variety:  With plenty of ice and a pound of sugar.


"Sure," he followed.  "CharChar drinks it all the time.  It's an old English tradition.  And don't you know that woman loves to keep in touch with her heritage?" he said, lovingly sarcastic.


"But what kind?  There's green tea, orange tea, peppermint tea, Earl Grey tea, raspberry tea, English Breakfast tea, Chai tea..."  I was beginning to feel overwhelmed.


Sensing my frustration, he interrupted me.  "Why don't you start with the English Breakfast.  That's her favorite."


Dad fished around in his pocket for money for the cashier.  I slid out a chair in between the two grown men, proud of my selection.  I could handle this -- adulthood.  Jimmo began to instruct me on preparing the tea, and scolded me for my lack of patience.  While my tea bag seeped, we discussed grown-up topics:  weather, politics, and sports.  (Ok, ok.  They weren't all grown-up topics).  Finally, the five minutes were up.  His burly, Marine hands carefully plucked the tea bag out of the hot water.  He demonstrated the proper way to drain the tea.  Gingerly, he placed the dripping bag on the spoon and with the string between his fingers, wrapped it around the bag, squeezing out any extra tea juice.  Then he ripped open a packet of sugar and shook every last granule into the cup.  He took the wrinkled bag off the spoon and began to stir the tea.


"There.  See if you like it."


I took a hesitant sip.  Then another.  I didn't like it.  I loved it.  


Later, I proudly told Char Char of my discovery.  "Wonderful!" she exclaimed with a bonding gleam in her eye.


It's amazing how something as silly as wanting to act mature can initiate a life-long tradition.  To this day, I'm hooked.  When I'm stressed or tired, my own cup of English Breakfast tea seems to relax me like nothing else.  


The only difference is that now I'm not so eager to feel older.  Instead, drinking hot tea allows me to revisit my past.  There's never a time when I don't smile as I light the gas burner, put on the kettle, and remember that introduction years ago at the little cafe across from the beach.