A Cup of Earl

‘A cup of Earl, darls?’ Clementine Kemp asks. I instantly relax, not only at the familiarity of our shared lexicon, but at the thought of a cup of Earl Grey, my favourite thing to drink, made just how I like it.

You are supposed to drink Earl Grey tea black, with a slice of lemon, and, maybe, some sugar. I drink my Earl Grey the way you are not supposed to. I like it medium-strong, with a decent splosh of milk, no sugar. In the words of the Prince song, CONTROVERSY.

It’s funny, the way that a particular beverage becomes part of the way you think about someone, a part of the way you understand their identity. Kitty Gilfeather, for instance, is a skinny flat white kind of girl. Jordan Hawthorne invariably orders a long black. MamaK likes her tea to be Dilmah, so strong you can stand a spoon in it, with skim milk and a sweetener.

I first drank Earl Grey staying at my grandparent’s house as a child. Picking, out of all the teabags in my grandmother’s cupboard, the one that smelt like the colour yellow, a smell I later found out was bergamot. I can’t remember developing a taste for Earl Grey black, so my grandmother must have added milk to my tea that first time I drank it, the way that you do for small children.

Try as I might (and I do try, on mornings when I’ve forgotten to buy a carton of moo juice and desperately need a cup of something warm in my hands while I get my head around the new day), Earl Grey tea, served as custom dictates, just doesn’t cut the mustard. My Earl has to have milk, and it has to be unsweetened.

It’s not Earl Grey how it’s supposed to be, but that’s why it’s my Earl. I wouldn’t want a cup of anything else.