Poet Laura: A Cuppa Comfort for the Holiday

It’s no secret that tea is a favorite of the Tweetspeak Poetry community. Over the years, I’ve taken a couple of Tweetspeak workshops with Megan Willome, and her verse spills from her teacup—the comfort and tang of its leaves. But I must confess that I’m a coffee lover, perhaps addict. Okay, I’ll admit it, I’m a coffee aficionado—ordering my beans from a place in Houston, grinding them fresh each morning. I suppose it goes all the way back to what I wrote of last month—about breakfasts with my great-grandpa and the bold aroma of his coffee in a cup set upon a saucer that he sometimes sipped from. Oh, that aroma made me eager for a sip I was not allowed as a young girl.

As the holidays come upon us—that time of year when we cozy up at home, as the air turns chilly, when our friends and family join us, we engage in celebrations. Teatime, coffee time, and I’m going to add chocolate—hot chocolate; they all sound like hygge to me.

The morning coffee. I’m not sure why I drink it. Maybe it’s the ritual
of the cup, the spoon, the hot water, the milk, and the little heap of
brown grit, the way they come together to form a nail I can hang the
day on ….

—by Ron Padgett in this excerpt from his prose poem The Morning Coffee

Yes, Mr. Padgett’s words speak to me—my ritual. In my kitchen, the ritual is my early morning contest over which comes first: to make the coffee or to feed the housecat and feral tortoiseshell staring at me. Usually, I start the coffee and feed the kitties. My hot potion brings the day alive, or is it me coming alive?

For I have known them all already, known them all—

Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,

I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;

—excerpt from The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock by T.S. Eliot

This morning,

I brewed a cup of coffee.
It was fresh, strong, and

Oh, so sweet.

It was even sweeter

Because I had you next to me.

—excerpt from “This Morning’s Coffee” by R. A. Bentinck

The excerpts from these poems resonate both the sweetness of coffee (or tea or chocolate) because it’s shared with another and the measuring of life by my morning coffees. Repeated rituals, whether solitary and pensive or in sobremesa, are a measure of the mystery of time. And then, there’s this excerpt (because I do love the poem):

Over a cup of coffee or sitting on a park bench
or 
walking the dog …
… when he would look back on his present self 

as on a distant relative who had drifted off
into 
uncharted lands.

—excerpt from “Over a Cup of Coffee” by Stephen Dobyns

***

Now, I am also a tea drinker—though less frequently. Many people are fond of black teas, especially my English friends. It’s a ritual, and rituals fit nicely into the holidays. My favorite teas are bitter melon tea, which I drink for health reasons, and, for many years, I’ve loved rooibos which is also called the red tea. It’s spicy and herbal and without the energizing caffeine. I do also love chai or a chai latte, and I often pick up a cup on my way to play dominoes with my friends. See! Another ritual. There is this beautiful poem by Welsh-Iraqi poet Hanan Issa titled simply “Tea.” So many great lines in her poem of “meticulous ceremonies that / celebrate friendship ….” A poem so full of history, ritual, and the senses folded into her poem, and these words:

“A sorrow infused over time,

seeping bitterness into boiled water.

Although, when mixed with mint,

jasmine, star anise, or cinnamon,

the taste of history is steeped in the present:
….”
—excerpt from Tea by Hanan Issa

The Red Tea

A sip of earth, no sugar needed, spines
dropped red and long resting in South African
green slopes of the Cederberg Mountains,

flavor fermented in piney needles of a rooibos
bush—hidden magic subtle in herbal potion
divine in its promise of heart health sprigged

with vanilla and good wishes. A cup of essence—
oxidized herbs and a blessed night’s sleep,
spices added and a good book to read is all I need.

—Sandra Fox Murphy

***

But now it’s December: winter solstice, Christmas, Hannukah, and celebrations galore of family and a new year, so let’s talk chocolate. Hot chocolate, embellished with whipped cream or marshmallows for the kids, is a perfect drink for holiday celebrations or a cozy night at home in December. But I’m going to take it a step further for the holidays. A cup of champurrado. Yes, a tasty Mexican drink, especially for the Christmas season.

I learned of the magical chocolate drink as I researched and drafted my novel Let the Little Birds Sing where Fidelia, the central character, a young girl, had a friend named Rosa at the neighboring farm, circa 1851. One day, Rosa’s mother (from Mexico) served the girls champurrado. Fidelia was delighted to discover this treat, a spiced drink with a mixture of corn masa and chocolate.

Maybe you don’t want the corn masa or a brew that thickens, so add some nutmeg, orange peel, or a cinnamon stick to your hot chocolate for the cozy night when the winter chills hold you indoors.

Now I will once again return to family (I believe it’s a side-effect of turning old) for my closing poem. I’m going back to tea, so let’s talk iced tea. It was my dad’s favorite. Delicate leaves steeped and chilled over ice. He drank a hot tea at breakfast, so I believe tea ran through his veins. Here is my poem to him and tea:

Teatime and Dad

Politically incorrect,
Dad jingles ice
in his glass,
like Pavlov’s bells,

ringing the toll—
his call for a refill,
temporal contiguity
always guiding me.

Dad’s beloved iced tea,
home-brewed
bit of sugar and ice,
rattling the charge

as if I’m an airman
in his squad—
Yes, sir! stimulus
and unconditional

love in that place where
now, the edges are thin,
and I still hear you,
Dad, you calling me,

jingling in my ears
still calling me—
to top off
your sweet tea.

—Sandra Fox Murphy

Your Turn

Write about your favorite drink and how it holds you at the table with your friends. How it comforts you in your quiet place. Rituals are precious and soothe us in our days.

Photo by Lila Dobbs, Creative Commons license via Flickr. Post by Sandra Fox Murphy.

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Sandra Fox Murphy

Sandra grew up everywhere as a USAF dependent, rootless, and when exposed to the beatnik poets at Indian Valley College, was smitten with poetry. After retirement from the U.S. Geological Survey, she found herself immersed in storytelling, and ensconced in Texas, researches small-town history and is the author of six novels, including Let the Little Birds Sing, the beginning of the Fidelia McCord Trilogy inspired by a young girl who came to Texas in 1847. Aging Without Grace is her first poetry collection, and her poems have been published at the Ocotillo Review, The Write Launch, Humans of the World, The River, and in several anthologies. Sandra's muses are the environment, history, and the natural beauty and mystery of place.

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