My mother made the tea. My stepfather made the tea. I made the tea. We were always making tea.
Eight Lipton tea bags (the gold standard) set to steep in a pan of hot water for an undetermined amount of time. A check here or there. The burner turned to off. The water, now a deep burnt orangey brown. Just right. The bags withdrawn and discarded. The pan of hot tea poured into the tupperware pitcher with the orange lid. Subsequently two more pans of ice cold water from the spigot (sounds like spicket—much like how ornery sounds like onree below the Mason Dixon). One heaping cup Domino Pure Cane Sugar and a whirlpool of wooden spoon stirring. Ready.
Mason jars filled with ice and topped off with a fresh pour. It never lasted long in the pitcher or in the glass. Once a day or every other day we brewed. We brewed for years.
Saturday before Memorial day, I feel like making iced tea. Earl Gray will have to do. Contemplation and follow through was a very quiet affair. No banging or whirring, dicing or scrubbing. Just the tick tick tick fwash of the gas burner and the silence of tea bags floating.
Lemon. Rinsed, sliced and waiting.
Wine carafe. Rinsed and waiting.
Me in kitchen chair. Waiting.
The bags withdrawn and discarded. The pan of hot tea poured into the wine carafe. Plop plop plop of halved lemon slices. Plop plop plop of ice cubes. Subsequent pour of ice cold water from the spigot (we call it the faucet these days).
A tall glass filled with ice and topped off with a fresh pour.
"It's weak." I said.
It's not Lipton. I thought.
"No sugar?" Roberto asked.
"No sugar." I said.
Roberto took a sip. "Lemony."
It's no Johnny Depp. I thought.
Johnny Depp equals one part home brewed iced tea and one part Country Time lemonade poured over a tall glass of ice and enjoyed by one very shy and awkward teenage girl who's very existence was propelled forward by episodes of 21 Jump Street in the late 80's.