M.C. Steep's Blog, page 3

Dec 4

The abominable snowman went dancing today. Not on purpose or anything. What happened was that when we left for the wilds of the Scarborough microclimate, there was no snow. And when we got to Warden, where we catch the bus, there was no snow. But somewhere around Ellesmere Road, we looked up from our book and there was snow.

The Scarborough microclimate deteriorated after that. The sun declined to come up. The fog hung about like that cat in the T. S. Elliot poem that rubs itself against the windowpane. Supposedly, the sunset was at 16:40, but it looked like midnight by 1600, so…

Anyway, I messaged the dance people to see if the class was still on.

‘There’s not that much snow is there?’ asked she.

‘Not at all,’ said naive, foolish, past us, cozily onboard a bus now headed back through the snow and the gloom to home. There still wasn’t all that much snow when we made our eleventh-hour trip to the bank. But then we went to dance, and here the whole thing fell apart, because there was really quite a lot (British usage) of snow, and we had no boots, because they’re in a box of undisclosed location while renovators redo the front hall and what have you.

So, there we were, going along in increasingly wet suede shoes and no hat. Snow accumulating on our coat. It was very nice to get into the warm and dance Rutland’s Reel and other favourites. But then we had to do the whole thing backwards. There’s still really quite a lot of snow.

Now we are having Masala Chai. It’s not the designated tea for today, it’s just what’s on top of the box. An executive decision, because we don’t like knowing what we’re pulling out of the calendar. It’s like knowing what’s in the Christmas presents before you unwrap them. Spoils the fun.

It’s hard to describe the chai. For lack of a better word it tastes unfinished. Not because it’s bad, but because we had no sugar in, so we’re drinking it unsweetened. An Indian cab driver once got into this at length with us, and apparently there are some regions of India that make their chai this way. It’s a regional thing, sweetening to taste. But it’s the way we had it first, so that’s how it tastes best to us. The sugar brings out the spices. Still, it’s nice and warming, which is what we wanted. No one wants to be the abominable snowman forever.

Speaking of. Have a poem.

The Snowman
Wallace Stevens

One must have a mind of winter
To regard the frost and the boughs
Of the pine-trees crusted with snow;

And have been cold a long time
To behold the junipers shagged with ice,
The spruces rough in the distant glitter

Of the January sun; and not to think
Of any misery in the sound of the wind,
In the sound of a few leaves,

Which is the sound of the land
Full of the same wind
That is blowing in the same bare place

For the listener, who listens in the snow,
And, nothing himself, beholds
Nothing that is not there and the nothing that is.

Dec 3: Nearly Normal Again

We have to show you this Advent Calendar. It’s not the usual one.

First off, it’s delightful. And kudos to our pneumonia-raddled mother for surprising us with it; She showed up while we were still out at a social dance group and had to leave it. Not her fault; we weren’t clear enough about when we’d be home.

But the surprise kept going. We knew it wasn’t the usual David’s Tea calendar, but we sort of thought (and so did she!) it would be done up like an Advent Calendar. You know, doors you open, boxes that pull out…You’ll see looking at this that it does have a very clever tea schematic in terms of what tea you get on what day. You may also notice that all the tea is just sort of…hanging out in different quadrants of an admittedly charming box. Obviously what’s supposed to happen here is that you’re supposed to put them in those reusable Advent Calendars, you know the kind? Bags, boxes, blocks…We’ve seen at least one overpriced model by Indigo.

Full disclosure; Despite a 33-odd piece Nativity set, we do not actually own a reusable Advent Calendar, because we’ve never had cause to. We’re not about to start now. So, feel free to weigh in. We can either follow the very careful schematic on the card insert, or do a pick-and mix sort of thing while we play catch up. Thoughts? Opinions?

In the spirit of surprises, we set out to grab what we thought was a section of a much longer Wordsworth poem on the theme. Turns out it’s a sonnet. Never tell the women who taught us Romantics. In our defence, we hear the title and with think C S Lewis before Wordsworth. Actually, don’t tell the old Romantics tutors that, either!

Surprised by Joy
William Wordsworth
Surprised by joy—impatient as the Wind
I turned to share the transport—Oh! with whom
But Thee, long buried in the silent Tomb,
That spot which no vicissitude can find?
Love, faithful love, recalled thee to my mind—
But how could I forget thee?—Through what power,
Even for the least division of an hour,
Have I been so beguiled as to be blind
To my most grievous loss!—That thought’s return
Was the worst pang that sorrow ever bore,
Save one, one only, when I stood forlorn,
Knowing my heart’s best treasure was no more;
That neither present time, nor years unborn
Could to my sight that heavenly face restore.

After all that we forgot the tea! It was Bigelow’s Spiced Chai today. We have to ration the Tetley Indulgence stuff at work, it’s such a hit, so we switch between the two. Supposedly Bigelow are some sort of family-run tea estate in North America. It might be Canada. Whatever they are, they’re hit-and-miss. Some of the teas are fine, but at least one was once described as “like drinking someone’s sweaty bathwater.”

The spiced chai is significantly nicer. Well, of course it is. You know us by now – we’re far too snobbish about tea to be drinking anything that isn’t nice, especially when slogging through verifications and press reports. It’s got a bit of cinnamon in it, and is the perfect thing to warm your hands in if you work in, oh, say, an icebox.

Which we do, by the way. It’s freezing. Look for poems about Siberia coming your way as soon as we open the metaphorical door of the very literal Advent Calendar tomorrow.

Dec 2

Today was an in-office day, which wasn’t the original plan, but we were too awake at six AM to bother trying to fall back asleep. So, by nine, we were out in the vast wilderness of Scarborough nursing a Tetley Indulgence Tea.

Tetley does several of these, but the one my office tea club is addicted to is called Cookies and Cream. It’s a seasonal thing, we’re convinced, because after months of making peace with its disappearance from the shelves, a non-work friend called in a flap having found it by the boxful at her local Walmart. Her Walmart being – minor detail – in Winnipeg. Luckily for the office, we were heading out that way to see Giselle anyway – this friend does the dyeing and costuming for them and would we like one of her free tickets. So, we stocked up on Tetley Indulgence and the Tea Club is reinvigorated.

It’s a dessert tea, and as the Cookies and Cream name suggests, milk enhances it. There’s a bit of vanilla in there, too. Nothing too extravagant, but it makes a change from bog standard Tetley. And it gets us through hours of endless hold music while at work. Nothing is quite as demoralising as a mangled violin sonata by oblique classical composer of your choice. This one screeched on all the high notes. It was not the Serenity Now customer service presumably thought it was. Instead, tea. And this evening, some light verse.

Flowers
Wendy Cope

Some men never think of it.
You did. You’d come along
And say you’d nearly brought me flowers
But something had gone wrong.

The shop was closed. Or you had doubts –
The sort that minds like ours
Dream up incessantly. You thought
I might not want your flowers.

It made me smile and hug you then.
Now I can only smile.
But, look, the flowers you nearly brought
Have lasted all this while.

Dec 1: And Now for Something Slightly Different

Ah, but there’s nothing different about Chorister at Home reappearing to talk tea and poetry, says you. Minor glitch: Our usual source of an Advent Calendar was first in Sri Lanka, then victim to some Dread Lurgy. So, as of December first, here we are sans calendar…bot never sans tea.

Here’s the plan; Until the calendar arrives, you’ll just have to walk with us through our kitchen and its considerable selection of teas. We’ll flip over to the mercurial whims of the Advent Calendar when it manifests.

Today, for instance, we enjoyed a lovely Scandanavian tea with the English name Emperor’s Bride. Sort of apt, since we’re still working our way through The Garden of Evening Mist, which has frequent cause to mention the Japanese Emperor. Is this the one the tea refers to? No idea. But the English ingredients say it’s flavoured with pineapple, orange peel and safflowers. It doesn’t actually taste that citrusy, but the pineapple gives it a pleasant sweetness. We’re going to be sorry when we have to replace it as our default breakfast tea.

Here’s a poem about ritual to go with our ritual morning tea. Hopefully the ending isn’t lost on our North American readers, who may not have cause to know the wondrously soothing thing that is the Shipping Forecast. Luckily, there’s always Google – and Carol Ann Duffy. Enjoy.

Prayer
Carol Ann Duffy

Some days, although we cannot pray, a prayer
utters itself. So, a woman will lift
her head from the sieve of her hands and stare
at the minims sung by a tree, a sudden gift.

Some nights, although we are faithless, the truth
enters our hearts, that small familiar pain;
then a man will stand stock-still, hearing his youth
in the distant Latin chanting of a train.

Pray for us now. Grade 1 piano scales
console the lodger looking out across
a Midlands town. Then dusk, and someone calls
a child’s name as though they named their loss.

Darkness outside. Inside, the radio’s prayer —
Rockall. Malin. Dogger. Finisterre.

Badly Done, Elections Canada

So, this is a break in procedure. For one, it’s not December. For mother, this doesn’t involve a poem. Just a long, vexed rant. Settle in.

We were born in Canada. Except for an eight-year sting in Britain, we have always lived in Canada. Even when in Britain, we voted by post. Okay. We tried. Canada sent our ballot after the election, making it approximately as useful as a chocolate teapot on a hot July picnic.

We mention this because a radio campaign promoted us to check if we were registered with Elections Canada. We trot off to the website, give our name, birthdate, residence, citizenship….and it can’t confirm we are eligible to vote. NB: we voted in the last election. So this is a bit weird.

But Elections Canada wants to register us so we can vote June 24. Fine. We fill in all the relevant info again. Name. Birth date. Citizenship. Address. Then it wants ID. There’s a whole whack of options, most of which, like your health card, no one wants to upload online because it’s easily nicked by fraudsters. In fact, everyone says to never hand over your health card to avoid identity theft. That’s okay, you can use your driver’s licence. Assuming you are not, as we are, legally blind.

Notably absent from this list is the Photo ID Card. When Service Ontario talked us into this card, it was billed as a driver’s licence for the non-driving. Except it’s not. It took until 2022 for it to be accepted as valid ID for anyone renewing their health card. And you can’t, apparently, use it to register to vote.

Elections Canada, we have to ask: Are you trying to discriminate against the legally blind? Do you not want us to vote? Do you realise the failure to include that Photo ID card could look like a violation of the AODA to the casual observer? Does that make you feel you’ve done your job well?

It makes us livid. It’s hard enough to vote with sight loss. You have just complicated that. Our only regret, is that whoever we vote for, we can’t vote Elections Canada out. Shame.

Dec. 24

We’re drinking a quick cup of Merry Breakfast blend before heading off for our Christmas Eve visit, so this is short and sweet today.

It’s a lovely tea – and exclusive to this Advent season. Inevitably. We’ll have to buy more before the year is over. There’s pomegranate in the tea, so it’s a bit sweet, but not overly so. Perfect for Christmas Eve.

We’re drinking it while the shortbread bakes as we pack up the Christmas cake and a grass cutting. We’re off to find out why.

But before we go, have the best Christmas poem going. It’s still our favourite.

The Oxen
Thomas Hardy

Christmas Eve, and twelve of the clock.“Now they are all on their knees,”An elder said as we sat in a flockBy the embers in hearthside ease.We pictured the meek mild creatures whereThey dwelt in their strawy pen,Nor did it occur to one of us thereTo doubt they were kneeling then.So fair a fancy few would weaveIn these years! Yet, I feel,If someone said on Christmas Eve,“Come; see the oxen kneel,“In the lonely barton by yonder coombOur childhood used to know,”I should go with him in the gloom,Hoping it might be so.Happy Christmas from the Chorister at home, the Marschallin Cat and the Dachshunds of Dawlish. Don’t forget to take time in all the business to drink tea (our advice) and nap lots (the animals recommend it).

Dec. 23

We’ve just watched the most ludicrous Christmas Special in a long line of Christmas Specials. This is a time-honoured British classic of holiday viewing, and we’ve seen a variety over the years. There’s the traumatic All Creatures, where we thought Tricky Woo was dying. Dachshunds still aren’t speaking to us about that one.

There was the Maigret Christmas Special, which was bizarrely well-constructed. There’s a whole line of Dr. Who Christmas Specials that exist so that we can wail down the phone to our academic sister that ‘That didn’t make sense! It was great until I thought about it for five minutes and now I’m so confused, Erin!’

And there’s the obligatory Heartbeat Christmas Special, brought to you by Soppy Is Us.

But then. Then. Then they gave us the Sister Boniface Christmas Special.

Unless you’ve seen Sister Boniface, you probably aren’t aware of several things. It began as the unlikely spin-off to Fr. Brown. Except, unlike it’s parent show, it’s a comedy. There are March Hares less mad than this show, and the Christmas Special is the maddest of the bunch. In a move you couldn’t make up – except, you know, someone, somewhere did – it crosses the bottle plot of Murder on the Orient Express with the jewel theft of The Blue Carbuncle, the obligatory curse of – well, actually, let’s face it, about half a dozen bog-standard mystery plots – and the birth of a baby in an unlikely spot on Christmas Eve. Complete with wise men (well, some nuns) bearing gifts and a star (okay, an enhanced rail signal) guiding the nuns to the baby.

If you got all that, kudos to you. We just watched it and are thoroughly perplexed. There was a whole subplot where the Rev. Mother cancelled Christmas a la Oliver Cromwell, and another involving two extremely dotty old ladies trying to create The Best Christmas Ever.

This is probably why we capitulated and made a mug of Camomile Dreamland. How else are we supposed to unwind from that madness?

Actually, we’re hard on Sister Boniface, and it’s truly bonkers. Honest-to-God. But there’s also a great New Yorker article from years back about how it’s one of the best Catholic TV shows, simply because it recognizes that the nuns in it are people, as well as nuns. the eponymous Boniface has a PhD in science. Sister Peter loves the movies. Sister Lawrence loves to cook. They bicker and fight, and it gets a heck of a lot more right about religion than Fr Brown does. We haven’t once had to scream That’s not how confessional seals work at this show. So, you know, go watch it. But not without embracing the sheer insanity first.

Anyway, back to the tea. Camomile Dreamland is a rooibos-based tea, so we had hopes it would taste better than normal camomile. And it does. A low bar benefits everyone, right? On the other hand, it doesn’t really taste like much of anything, either. It’s been steeping away while we typed about the madness of some fictional nuns, and you’d think that would be enough time to taste of something, but…no. There’s a hint of something sweet in there, and we suspect rose petals. But the rooibos pretty much drowns out the taste of everything else, even the lemon.

On the other hand, we can’t taste the camomile, so that’s something.

So, what to pair with this tea? Have one about Mistletoe. Why? Blame Sr Boniface. It was pivotal to her scientific deductions. Also, we’re pretty sure this is saner. Hang on, what was it we said about that low bar…?

Mistletoe
Walter de la Mare

Sitting under the mistletoe
(Pale-green, fairy mistletoe),
One last candle burning low,
All the sleepy dancers gone,
Just one candle burning on,
Shadows lurking everywhere:
Some one came, and kissed me there.

Tired I was; my head would go
Nodding under the mistletoe
(Pale-green, fairy mistletoe),
No footsteps came, no voice, but only,
Just as I sat there, sleepy, lonely,
Stooped in the still and shadowy air
Lips unseen—and kissed me there.

Would you look at that. There’s not one stand-in crib scene. Not to worry, there’s another Christmas Special or ten round the corner…

Dec. 22

It’s half past five on the 22nd, and already we are so exhausted we could sleep for a week. We have yet to visit one relative, or hang a stocking, and there’s a whole day to go before Christmas Eve. But that’s it. We’re out. We have an appointment with a long winter’s nap. See you next year.

Assuming we don’t, in fact, wander off to sleep to rival the Marschallin Cat and the Buffy Dachshund, it will be purely because we subsist on tea and holiday baking.

Today it was a green tea, Korean Sejak, that per weird calendar tradition, still lacked capital letters despite featuring a proper noun in the title. It’s a nutty green tea, and it almost had enough caffeine to revive us after driving back and forth to the thriving metropolis of Guelph, Ontario.

(Guelph is not, for those outsider-readers, the alien Dr Who forgot to feature, much as it really should be. It’s a little town in the middle-of-nowhere, Ontario, and when we lived in St Andrews, we met the one other Canadian to know where this place was. He ran student support, and he was a local legend. Malcolm is now one of the Seven Wonders of Guelph. Also on that list; The Floral Clock and The Speed River, which is one of the best misnomers going.)

For most people, driving there-and-back-again is enough for one day, but no. We had to put the marzipan on the Christmas cake, and we had to wrap the gifts, because our family is doing a pre-emptive Christmas Eve tomorrow. This means tomorrow doesn’t exist and somehow our two-day holiday has ballooned into a three-day one.

Query for the universe; Why, knowing all that would be the case, would you stick us with the lurgy to end all lurgies the week of an Advent IV-Christmas Eve hybrid?! Whose clever idea was that, and who did we offend? Asking, so that going forward, we do everything in our power to never offend them the same way ever again.

On the plus side…We can almost breathe through our nose again. Almost. The hacking cough is still around, too. But, you know what? We’re at the stage where we’ll take almost breathing through our nose. Let’s call that a win.

All to say, you’re getting the last of our stockpiled poems tonight. Fair warning; This one famously traumatized a whole generation of Australian English students. The thing is, we sincerely like it. And Advent is supposed to be a penitential season. So…enjoy?

And A Good Friday Was Had By All
Bruce Dawe

You men there, keep those women back
and God Almighty he laid down
on the crossed timber and old Silenus
my offsider looked at me as if to say
nice work for soldiers, your mind’s not your own
once you sign that dotted line Ave Caesar
and all that malarkey Imperator Rex
well this Nazarene
didn’t make it any easier
really-not like the ones
who kick up a fuss so you can
do your block and take it out on them
Silenus
held the spikes steady and I let fly
with the sledge-hammer, not looking
on the downswing trying hard not to hear
over the women’s wailing the bones give way
the iron shocking the dumb wood.

Orders is orders, I said after it was over
nothing personal you understand -we had a
drill-sergeant once thought he was God but he wasn’t
a patch on you

then we hauled on the ropes
and he rose in the hot air
like a diver just leaving the springboard, arms spread
so it seemed
over the whole damned creation
over the big men who must have had it in for him
and the curious ones who’ll watch anything if it’s free
with only the usual women caring anywhere
and a blind man in tears.

Tell you what, we’ll try and spend what’s left of our thoroughly residual brain power sourcing something happier for the penultimate day of Advent. Over a cup of really strong tea, ideally.

Dec. 21

We’re having an extremely tentative cup of today’s Mint Everest. It’s a black tea with mint, and we like mint fine, but black tea and cramps are sort of an oil and water combination. Since we finally got them to quiet down and leave us alone a couple of hours ago, we don’t really feel like inviting them back with a highly caffeinated tea.

So, we aren’t really experts on how this should taste. We gave it approximately thirty seconds to steep and really hope that wasn’t too long. So far, though, it mostly tastes of mint. There’s cardamom seeds in there, and ginger, and apparently black tea. We can’t taste any of that.

Honestly, it tastes more like Christmas tree under the peppermint, which isn’t the weirdest thing we could say, because we’re pretty sure there were pine needles in the leaves we decanted into our mug. So, it’s all very Christmassy. And only for the people out there who enjoy mint.

But keep in mind, it might improve with a longer steep time. We’ll come back to it tomorrow or Saturday and report back.

We’re writing this all out while waiting for the nth pot of soup to boil. We are officially sick of soup. On the other hand, it was nice of family to stockpile it, and this time it’s not out of a tin.

But, even so. Lewis Carroll, though, proving there’s a poem for everything, doesn’t agree.

Beautiful Soup
Lewis Carroll

BEAUTIFUL Soup, so rich and green,
Waiting in a hot tureen!
Who for such dainties would not stoop?
Soup of the evening, beautiful Soup!
Soup of the evening, beautiful Soup!

Beau- ootiful Soo-oop!
Beau- ootiful Soo-oop!
Soo- oop of the e- e- evening,
Beautiful, beautiful Soup!

Beautiful Soup! Who cares for fish,
Game, or any other dish?
Who would not give all else for two
Pennyworth only of Beautiful Soup?
Pennyworth only of beautiful Soup?

Beau- ootiful Soo-oop!
Beau- ootiful Soo-oop!
Soo- oop of the e- e- evening,
Beautiful, beauti- FUL SOUP!

Dec. 20

Retrospectively, we should have known it was too good to be true when we woke up feeling more or less okay, bar some congestion.

Turns out the Terrible Lurgy Of Doom only let us off the hook to ease us into slow and agonising cramps. Question for anyone to have a go at; Who do we contact to demand a refund with interest on this last week? We want to know.

The calendar tried to compensate with a gorgeous silk dragon jasmine. That’s expensive stuff – the kind of green tea we dream of but don’t buy because freelancing doesn’t pay that kind of dividends.

Mind you, because we spent more of today in the bath than not, we only sampled a little. It lives up to its name though; it’s beautifully smooth. Here’s to drinking it when we feel human.

Want to start bets on when that is?

Sick Room
Billy Collins

Every time Canaletto painted Venice
he painted her from a different angle,

sometimes from points of view
he must have imagined,

for there is no place in the city
he could have stood to observe such scenes.

How ingenious of him to visualize
a dome or canal from any point in space.

How passionate he was
to delineate Venice from perspectives

that required him to mount the air
and levitate there with his floating brush.

But I have been sick in this bed
for over sixty hours,

and I am not Canaletto,
and this airless little room,

with its broken ceiling fan
and its monstrous wallpaper, is not Venice.