The Dilemma of Missing Tea: When My Coffee Misbehaves
The Dilemma of Missing Tea: When My Coffee Misbehaves
When the morning alarm chimes at exactly 06:45, the first thing I do is slam my hand on the phone to shut it down – you know, the ritual before I launch the kettle and start the day. I’ve always revered tea as the beacon of civilisation: a humble cup of the good stuff, a brief, soothing pause before I run through the National Health Service of my own duties. But this particular morning, my dear colleagues in the circuitry of my kitchen gave me a one‑way ticket: “Tea S.O.S. – the kettle’s gone rogue.”
It began innocently enough. I poured the kettle a hearty amount of water, set the date‑time for a quick 15‑minute boil, and, in my excitement, I opened the cupboard to fetch the tea bag. The cupboard, however, was closed – because I had left it closed the night before, having no intention of ever opening it. “What in the name of a good cup of Earl Grey could possibly be wrong?” I muttered, putting the kettle aside to retrieve the missing tea, only to be handed an impossible choice: either wait for the kettle to finish its electrical rebellion or pull a fresh mug of coffee from the bean counter.
Coffee, who my parents taught me was “the rationer, the time‑keeper, and the saviour of the unenthusiastic learner,” was left misbehaving. After all, by standard British procedure, tea should have been front and centre, followed by a small Military Humour-ish sniff of offence, and the harbinger of delusion – the coffee. But our coffee machine, or if you prefer, a downtrodden little barista of a machine, displayed a mood that was atypical for a caffeinated contraption. It simply refused to work; each attempt to mash the start button was met with an unannounced, impotent cup‑whirring followed by a judiciously placed, “Sorry, the machine has had just enough coffee in your life already.”
So there it went – my homes rebuilt around a whole new metaphysical crisis: the lack of tea, and therefore the caffeinated inadequacy, propelled me into a desperate, yet anecdotal solution. I coaxed the kettle with a siren. I re‑checked the power supply. I whispered calming words to the kettle until it boiled over and endeavoured to produce steam that was only, superficially, a marriage of honourable tea. But every time, a very bold coffee bowl (the new slang for a brewed form) was the only thing to appear in the still‑burning pot.
By the time my grandmother almost told her old story about "the coffee that misbehaved – it turned into a full decadent tea that made the whole London skyline look pastry‑filled at dawn," the kettle had already burnt the top of the fridge and, once again, refused to comply. She sighed, backed away into the kitchen at the sight of her family's plant (the fern), but instead reiterated, "You want tea? You’ll need the kettle in the top right corner of the cupboard. The kettle there has been holding a slouching, inactive attempt to help.
A friend, so far from utopian and well‑meaning, said, “Maybe you’re trying to ask a ‘kettled’ brew that requires your favourite sort of tea to make a real, refined cup.” She was halfway to abiding by the rule that tea cannot be made from coffee.
Hence, I confess: no amount of caffeine can enlighten Bubbles. We got a fuel source and but the kettle did not open. The best option is to admit we all are in this almost perennial crisis. In short, to fix the missing tea dilemma, I propose a simpler solution.
It’s simple: a mug of tea often is a not‑so‑spotless cup of the sun‑raked dawn, above any brewing machine's would‑like design. If you can't find a cup of tea, spot a comfortable patch of grass on the balcony, sit in it in the day; while you sip, look for the kettle. If you don’t do so, you have no one. The coffee remains dormant in its chamber, hopelessly patience‑driven. Take the kettle, remember the week‑end, and then honestly tell yourself that all this drama is indeed suited for this silly story. Also, if you’re stubborn in your coffee fanatical experiences, you could invest in a single‑origin, flat‑Sunset coffee.
The moral, arranged in the rite‑of‑passage style of the grand British reckoning of tea, goes as such: if you get out of your day by being dank holy, a simple experiment that counts the coffee, as well as the tea, reminds you _that life is not about sensible supremacy.** It's truth, it’s rare, and it’s so dark that nobody will ever be able to escape coffee.
So, raise a cup… or a pot. Keep the kettle cosy. And in all spirits and caffeinated confidence, remember: the missing tea dilemma will be solved the quickest of ways when you look under the couch or if a relative's puppet on a tea‑shop! (The bottom line is the same – tea, oh tea, be careful with that coffee that misbehaves. All of us in the pre‑breakfast crowd will consist of tea, but the coffee misbehaviour; and the curse of the missing tea, might well get you these better than an old favourite)
