M.C. Steep's Blog, page 5

Dec. 9

We don’t mind admitting toady’s tea, a Brazilian Mate , has us stumped. It claims to be ‘herbaceous,’ and maybe this is where the confusion started. Maybe we failed the Tea Marketing Course. We hear ‘herbaceous’ and think ‘border.’ You know, pretty English border gardens? Full of herbaceous shrubs? Yeah, that.

It also strongly suggests a herbal tea, and mate is definitely caffeinated. Not as caffeinated as, say, Full Flush Darjeeling, but it’s not camomile tea, either.

So, we went onto the website for this one, and the mythical David agrees about the caffeine, whatever the Advent Calendar packaging says. Of course, David also promises sweet notes in this tea, but all we’re getting is the earthy undertones. That might be our fault. We tipped the packet intou our tea bell, because without the little gold tins, it’s too hard to save leftover tea in the cupboard. The bags topple over. Something to think about, Friend David.

The point here is, we may have over-steeped the tea. It was a very generous portion of mate. We’d try it again with fewer leaves and an egg timer. But maybe not late at night.

About which – we were out at a concert this evening, hence squeaking in at the eleventh hour. It was a really good, Medieval music thing, with lutes and period instruments. No O-Antiphons, but that’s okay. I have my weekly appointment with Creator of the Starry Bloody Height tomorrow. Oh, wait, that’s not the title. It’s also a different post. Want to know which Advent hymn we’re already sick of? Tune in tomorrow. We’ll tell all.

Until then…We were going to find you a nice Middle English poem. You know, Donne, Herbert, Meredith…But it’s late, so we’re dipping into the emergency backup. Have Faux Middle English(e) instead.

The Ballad of Goodly Fere
Ezra Pound

Simon Zelotes speaking after the Crucifixion. Fere=Mate, Companion.

Ha’ we lost the goodliest fere o’ all
For the priests and the gallows tree?
Aye lover he was of brawny men,
O’ ships and the open sea.

When they came wi’ a host to take Our Man
His smile was good to see,
“First let these go!” quo’ our Goodly Fere,
“Or I’ll see ye damned,” says he.

Aye he sent us out through the crossed high spears
And the scorn of his laugh rang free,
“Why took ye not me when I walked about
Alone in the town?” says he.

Oh we drank his “Hale” in the good red wine
When we last made company,
No capon priest was the Goodly Fere
But a man o’ men was he.

I ha’ seen him drive a hundred men
Wi’ a bundle o’ cords swung free,
That they took the high and holy house
For their pawn and treasury.

They’ll no’ get him a’ in a book I think
Though they write it cunningly;
No mouse of the scrolls was the Goodly Fere
But aye loved the open sea.

If they think they ha’ snared our Goodly Fere
They are fools to the last degree.
“I’ll go to the feast,” quo’ our Goodly Fere,
“Though I go to the gallows tree.”

“Ye ha’ seen me heal the lame and blind,
And wake the dead,” says he,
“Ye shall see one thing to master all:
‘Tis how a brave man dies on the tree.”

A son of God was the Goodly Fere
That bade us his brothers be.
I ha’ seen him cow a thousand men.
I have seen him upon the tree.

He cried no cry when they drave the nails
And the blood gushed hot and free,
The hounds of the crimson sky gave tongue
But never a cry cried he.

I ha’ seen him cow a thousand men
On the hills o’ Galilee,
They whined as he walked out calm between,
Wi’ his eyes like the grey o’ the sea,

Like the sea that brooks no voyaging
With the winds unleashed and free,
Like the sea that he cowed at Genseret
Wi’ twey words spoke’ suddently.

A master of men was the Goodly Fere,
A mate of the wind and sea,
If they think they ha’ slain our Goodly Fere
They are fools eternally.

I ha’ seen him eat o’ the honey-comb
Sin’ they nailed him to the tree.

Wondering what fere means? It’s proper Middle English for ‘companion’ or ‘friend.’ For our money, it’s what sells the poem linguistically. The first time we heard it was while watching A Spy Among Friends. We know, we know, two English degrees and somehow Pound never came up. But because he didn’t, we genuinely took it for a fragment of something much older.

Dec 8

Today’s tea was a gorgeous Saigon Chai. We did our best to make it properly, iwth lots of milk and rock sugar from a friend. We don’t typically sweeten tea, but we make an exception for chai, because traditionally that’s how you make it.

Really traditionally, you’re supposed to our the tea into gently simmering milk and whisk it to keep it aerated. And then you do this thing where you pour it back and forth between pans from a lofty height, which is…not great technique for your household blinky person.

That’s ‘partially sighted’ to the layperson.

Though actually, we’ve done the whisking thing while visiting the academic sister, and while it’s involved, it makes for a lovely tea.

This one turns out quite nicely even without all that fuss. There’s a good mixture of spices in there, and the sweetness helps emphasize the. We got two pots out of the packet, and are sorry we don’t have more.

Normally, we try not to recycle poems too much. We figure some people come back annually and would get bored if every year was the same stuff. But we’ve just given you a lengthy lecture on chai, so this poem is too perfect not to reuse. It was Kenny Knight or Carol Ann Duffy, and she’s great, but we know which option we’d pick.

Lessons In Tea Making
Kenny Knight

When I first learnt to
Pour tea in Honicknowle

In those dark old days
Before central heating

Closed down open fireplaces
And lights went out in coal mines

And chimpanzees hadn’t yet
Made their debuts on television

And two sugars
Was the national average

And the teapot was the centre
Of the known universe

And the solar system
Wasn’t much on anyone’s mind

And the sun was this yellow
Thing that just warmed the air

And anthropology’s study
Of domestic history hadn’t

Quite reached the evolutionary
Breakthrough of the tea-bag

And the kettle was on
In the kitchen of number

Thirty two Chatsworth Gardens
Where my father after slurping

Another saucer dry would ask
In a smoke-frog voice for

Another cup of microcosm
While outside the universe blazed

Like a hundred towns
On a sky of smooth black lino

And my father with tobacco
Stained fingers would dunk biscuits

And in the process spill tiny drops
Of Ceylon and India

It had to be couplets, eh, Knight? It’s a good thing we like this poem. You have no idea how many of your bloody couplets we just fought the blog to realign.

Day 7

We’re drinking today’s tea late, and honestly, it’s not because the day was busy. It was busy, but the plain fact is that you don’t drink camomile tea in the middle of the day unless you are actively trying to nap.

Normally, we make an excellent cat. We like sun, and we like lounging and a general sensibility of coziness. We’re less keen on sleeping all day, though. Miss Resi makes an absolute specialty of it. It’s a whole production. First, she circles thricely. Then, trhicely she pads her blankets. Next…Oh, hang on, that’s a poem, isn’t it? A really terrible paraphrase about the cat that drowns in a goldfish pond. What was wrong with Victorians?

Where was I? Ah, all that glisters is not always gold, and camomile tea is never a good idea before two and a half hours of Scottish Country Dance. Actually, by the time we got to the dancing bit, we were doing a pretty good job of losing the plot without our least favourite sleepy-time tea.

No, really. Lavender’s nicer. What is it about camomile that tastes inherently of dry hay? Please feel free to leave your favourite way to improve it in the comments. We wished we loved it.

But we’re drinking it now, right before bed, where the cat will join us. She has a very busy day. She gets up, and she sleeps. Then she sleeps and gets up. Then she rest before napping and – oh? You say we’re paraphrasing another cat poem? Well have one we haven’t poked fun at in the blog.

The Cat’s Dream
Pablo Neruda

How neatly a cat sleeps,
sleeps with its paws and its posture,
sleeps with its wicked claws,
and with its unfeeling blood,
sleeps with all the rings-
a series of burnt circles-
which have formed the odd geology
of its sand-colored tail.

I should like to sleep like a cat,
with all the fur of time,
with a tongue rough as flint,
with the dry sex of fire;
and after speaking to no one,
stretch myself over the world,
over roofs and landscapes,
with a passionate desire
to hunt the rats in my dreams.

I have seen how the cat asleep
would undulate, how the night
flowed through it like dark water;
and at times, it was going to fall
or possibly plunge into
the bare deserted snowdrifts.
Sometimes it grew so much in sleep
like a tiger’s great-grandfather,
and would leap in the darkness over
rooftops, clouds and volcanoes.

Sleep, sleep cat of the night,
with episcopal ceremony
and your stone-carved moustache.
Take care of all our dreams;
control the obscurity
of our slumbering prowess
with your relentless heart
and the great ruff of your tail.

Dec. 6: St Nicholas Day

There’s nothing like lying in bed at tw oAM to give you an existential crisis. Ours was brought to us by the bin calendar, which said tomorrow, Weds, Dec 7 was recycling.

But then we thought, no, because today was the fifth. And then we thought, did we lose a day?! And we lay awake forever trying to figure out what day we lost and how, because we were pretty sure the blog was up-to-date.

Eventually, we had the brainwave to check the calendar, and Wednesday was definitely the sixth. Huzzah! No days lost. New problem: Why is the recycling calendar wrong? If you already surmised we looked at last year’s recycling calendar, have a biscuit with your tea. Have two.

Then picture our two AM anguish as we chase down the correct schedule on the Ontario Government website. It really, really didn’t want us to find it. Or figure out which of the five available options was ours. Eventually, we found a non-government website that let us input the postal code to figure out which area was ours, and – oh frabjious day! – it was still recycling. Huzzah again!

We spent today extremely sleepy. We’re recovering with green tea before tonight’s Scottish Dance session. The calendar took us back to Nepal, and we have a lovely green tea at our elbow. We’re about to go drink it.

But first, we thought we’d give you a poem so you could appreciate how all that made us feel. Don’t worry, you haven’t lost the ability to read English. It’s just gone wobbly.

The Jabberwocky
Lewis Caroll

’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
 Did gyre and gimble in the wabe:
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

“Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!”

He took his vorpal sword in hand;
Long time the manxome foe he sought—
So rested he by the Tumtum tree
And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!

One, two! One, two! And through and through
The vorpal blade went snicker-snack!
He left it dead, and with its head
 He went galumphing back.

“And hast thou slain the Jabberwock?
Come to my arms, my beamish boy!
O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!”
He chortled in his joy.

’Twas brillig, and the slithy toves
Did gyre and gimble in the wabe
All mimsy were the borogoves,
And the mome raths outgrabe.

Dec. 5: That Green and Pleasant Land

When we saw Big Ben on today’s Advent door, we crossed our fingers for Cream of Earl Grey tea. Our luck paid off.

The thing about Cream of Earl Grey is that it’s the rare Earl Grey we like. Typically, we associate it with the taste of soap. But there’s a couple non-bergamot ingredients in this tea that round it out nicely. Sadly, we used it all up over three pots today. Just file it under Twas We Want More Of.

So, what do you pair with a beloved tea? A beloved poem. If you’ve been here before, you can probably see this one coming.

We have no apologies. It’s late, we’ve been dancing, and what’s not to love about Thomas Harry’s nature poetry? He’s not even offending one or both wives here!

The Darkling Thrush

Thomas Hardy

I leant upon a coppice gate      When Frost was spectre-grey,And Winter’s dregs made desolate      The weakening eye of day.The tangled bine-stems scored the sky      Like strings of broken lyres,And all mankind that haunted nigh      Had sought their household fires.The land’s sharp features seemed to be      The Century’s corpse outleant,His crypt the cloudy canopy,      The wind his death-lament.The ancient pulse of germ and birth      Was shrunken hard and dry,And every spirit upon earth      Seemed fervourless as I.At once a voice arose among      The bleak twigs overheadIn a full-hearted evensong      Of joy illimited;An aged thrush, frail, gaunt, and small,      In blast-beruffled plume,Had chosen thus to fling his soul      Upon the growing gloom.So little cause for carolings      Of such ecstatic soundWas written on terrestrial things      Afar or nigh around,That I could think there trembled through      His happy good-night airSome blessed Hope, whereof he knew
And I was unaware.

Dec. 4

Today we’re drinking Tumeric Chai after a brisk walk with the Dachshunds. We don’t mind saying, we had doubts. We love a good chai, but this is half rooibos, and uses spices better known for their curry-seasoning ability.

The result is a warm tea, not too caffeinated. We’d have it again.

It’s also apt, because tumeric is approximately the colour of the cat we cat-sat with today.

We planned a bit ahead in the blog, and always meant to give you a) a cat poem and b) on of the Faber cat collection by Eliot.

What we forgot, when we went digging for poems about feline gingers, was that the most famous of them was sitting under our nose.

McCavity; The Mystery Cat

T.S. Eliot

Macavity’s a Mystery Cat: he’s called the Hidden Paw–
For he’s the master criminal who can defy the Law.
He’s the bafflement of Scotland Yard, the Flying Squad’s despair:
For when they reach the scene of crime–Macavity’s not there!

Macavity, Macavity, there’s no on like Macavity,
He’s broken every human law, he breaks the law of gravity.
His powers of levitation would make a fakir stare,
And when you reach the scene of crime–Macavity’s not there!
You may seek him in the basement, you may look up in the air–
But I tell you once and once again, Macavity’s not there!

Macavity’s a ginger cat, he’s very tall and thin;
You would know him if you saw him, for his eyes are sunken in.
His brow is deeply lined with thought, his head is highly doomed;
His coat is dusty from neglect, his whiskers are uncombed.
He sways his head from side to side, with movements like a snake;
And when you think he’s half asleep, he’s always wide awake.

Macavity, Macavity, there’s no one like Macavity,
For he’s a fiend in feline shape, a monster of depravity.
You may meet him in a by-street, you may see him in the square–
But when a crime’s discovered, then Macavity’s not there!

He’s outwardly respectable. (They say he cheats at cards.)
And his footprints are not found in any file of Scotland Yard’s.
And when the larder’s looted, or the jewel-case is rifled,
Or when the milk is missing, or another Peke’s been stifled,
Or the greenhouse glass is broken, and the trellis past repair–
Ay, there’s the wonder of the thing! Macavity’s not there!

And when the Foreign Office finds a Treaty’s gone astray,
Or the Admiralty lose some plans and drawings by the way,
There may be a scap of paper in the hall or on the stair–
But it’s useless of investigate–Macavity’s not there!
And when the loss has been disclosed, the Secret Service say:
“It must have been Macavity!”–but he’s a mile away.
You’ll be sure to find him resting, or a-licking of his thumbs,
Or engaged in doing complicated long division sums.

Macavity, Macavity, there’s no one like Macacity,
There never was a Cat of such deceitfulness and suavity.
He always has an alibi, or one or two to spare:
And whatever time the deed took place–MACAVITY WASN’T THERE!
And they say that all the Cats whose wicked deeds are widely known
(I might mention Mungojerrie, I might mention Griddlebone)
Are nothing more than agents for the Cat who all the time
Just controls their operations: the Napoleon of Crime!

Poor Eliot famously hated his cat poems. But they kept Faber&Faber in business, so they kept publishing them.

Advent I

Tonight we’re going to tell you a story. This is about us and the family we live with, and how every year, we order the same Christmas tree from the same people.

‘You need to order the Christmas tree,’ says our father.

We always order the tree, so that’s not a problem. ‘How about we order it for the third,’ we say.

‘Excellent,’ he says. ‘December third. Perfect.’

‘Good,’ we say. ‘We’ll order it for December third.’

We agree on December third for the tree’s arrival. We say December third a lot.

We go off and order the tree. For December third.

‘No,’ says he, ‘that doesn’t work. I’m not here to set up the tree on December third. Make it December second.’

Briefly, but only briefly, we contemplate murder. We wonder if there has ever been a Death By Christmas Tree reported, and if not, if that’s because no one’s thought of it yet, or because the person who committed it got away with it. We meditate on how one gets away with Christmas Tree murder. We decide hefting a nine-foot weapon is maybe beyond our skill set.

So, we call the nursery and change the tree’s arrival to December second. They make a note. We make a note. We now all agree the tree will arrive on December second. We may or may not double- triple- and quadruple-check that this date works for all invocled. We say December second a lot to confirm.

December second arrives. There is no tree. There is no tree when our father goes to do the shopping at eleven. There is no tree when we are having tea at noon. There is still no tree when we leave for the family ceilidh at two-thirty.

There is no tree when we return from the family ceilidh at five-thirty, by which point the nursery is closed.

So, this morning we get on the phone. The problematic father-object is now en route to New Brunswick. The nursery is confused. We are one of several people on this street to not get our tree on the date specified. They ask if we checked the porch, and admittedly, this wasn’t a thing anyone did, but you have to think we’d notice nine foot of Christmas tree, surely to God.

The nursery is apologetic. They take our order details. They trot off to check stuff. They call back. It’s always the same guy, by the way. Lovely man with the kind of plummy British accent on loan from Downton. Very soothing to listen to. He says that the tree is now scheduled for delivery. Want to guess on what day? Go on, guess.

And then guess what was on the porch when, after all that faff, we went out to grab the newspaper. Go on, have a guess. Have three. The first two don’t count.

As of writing, we haven’t cracked murder by remote control, though we know for a fact Agatha Christie did. Ever read The Pale Horse? Guess what we’re reading over tonight’s Simply Hibiscus tea.

Though, we may skip the tea. It’s very astringent. Very pink. It may incite murder, not talk us out of it.

Murder
David Baker, 1994

1.

Language must suffice.

Years ago,

               under a sweet June sky

stung with stars and swept back by black leaves

barely rustling,

a beautiful woman nearly killed me.

Listen,

she said,

and turned

her lovely face to the stars, the wild sky….

2.

No.

No: years ago,

                     under a sweet, June sky

strung with stars and swept back by black leaves

barely rustling,

under this sky

broad, bright, all rung around

with rustling elders—or intoxicating willows,

or oaks, I forget—

                           under this sky,

a beautiful woman killed me, nearly.

I say beautiful. You had to see her.

Listen,

she said,

and turned a lovely shell of her ear

to the swirl of stars

and the moon

                  smudged as a wingtip in one tree, not far.

3.

Yes: she scraped my back bloody against a rough trunk.

Yes: she flung back her lovely face

and her hair, holding me down,

and the tree shook slowly, as in a mild, persistent laugh

or wind,

            and the moon high in that black tree

swung to and fro …

there were millions of stars

up where she stared past us,

and one moon, I think.

4.

Excuse me.

My friend, who loves poetry truly, says too much

nature taints my work.

Yes. Yes. Yes.

Too many birds, stars—

                                 too much rain,

                                 too much grass—

so many wild, bowing limbs

howling or groaning into the natural night …

and he might be right. Even here.

That is, if tree were a tree.

That is, if star or moon or even beautiful woman

craning the shell of her ear

were what they were.

They are, I think, not.

No: and a poem about nature contains anything but.

5.

When they descended to us, they were a cloud of stars

sweeping lightly. They sang to us urgently

about our lives,

they touched us

with a hundred thousand hair-soft, small legs—

and held down by such hungers, we let them cover us,

this beautiful woman, this me,

who couldn’t move,

who were stung—do you hear?—

who were stung again, were covered that quickly, crying

to each other

                     to fly away!

6.

          … I just can’t erase

the exquisite, weeping language

of the wasps, nor her face in starlight

and so tranquil under that false, papery, bobbing

          moon

just minutes before,

saying listen,

listen,

nor then the weight

of her whole natural body

                                       pinning down mine

until we both cried out for fear, and pain,

and still couldn’t move.

7.

Language must suffice.

First, it doesn’t. Then, of course,

it does. Listen, listen.

What do you hear? This nearly killed me.

I’ll never know

why she didn’t just whisper Here they come, warn Move!

cry They’ll kill us!

Yes: I will save you …

Yes: I love you too much to watch you suffer!

But it’s all I recall, or now need.

And, anyway, I loved her, she was so beautiful.

And that is what I have had to say

before it’s too late,

                               before they have killed me,

before they have killed you, too,

or before we have all become something else entirely,

which is to say

before we are

only language.

You know what else provokes murder? The WordPress browser interface refuses to let us underline anything. We had to go to the app for that. And the app? It won’t let us align anything. Picture us here, surrounded by a tree that arrived on the day it was originally supposed to, after being set up by a benevolent uncle, contemplating murder. Of so, so, so many people.

Dec 2: La Vie en Rose

No root canals, but there was a ceilidh, so things are definitely moving in the right direction.

Ceilidhs are always good fun for getting new people into Scottish Country dance. We’re convinced they were designed to be danced drunk – that’s definitely how a lot of kilted, would-be-Scots Americans danced them back in St Andrews.

There was pizza afterwards but we didn’t hang about for that. Blame the tooth trouble. Instead we had today’s tea. There should be a great segue here, about how it was a Scottish tea…

But according to the Trip Around the World Calendar, we went to Paris with Cupid’s Breakfast.

Yeah, no, we have nothing either. Poor Cupid is Greek, and the tea is a beautiful black tea with roses that anyone can buy us more of. You know, if they feel bad about not understanding what to feed us post root canal. Just a thought.

Let’s presume marketing thought it was romantic. It’s definitely a gorgeous tea.

Let’s see if we can find you a poem a bit more French than the tea, though.

Le Pont Mirabeau, or Under the Mirabeau Bridge

Guillaume Apollinaire

Under the Mirabeau bridge flows the Seine
And our loves
Must I remember them
Joy always followed pain

The night falls and the hours ring
The days go away I remain

Hand in hand let us stay face to face
While underneath the bridge
Of our arms passes
The water tired of the eternal looks

The night falls and the hours ring
The days go away I remain

Love goes away like this flowing water
Love goes away
Life is so slow
And hope is so violent

The night falls and the hours ring
The days go away I remain

Days pass by and weeks pass by
Neither past time
Nor past loves will return
Under the Mirabeau bridge flows the Seine

The night falls and the hours ring
The days go away I remain

Dec 1

Advent is off to an unlikely start, with a round of brutal toothache. So, no Scottish Dancing for St Andrews Day, and straight to the dentist this morning for the permanent filling.

So, we’re relaxing over Nepalese White Tea. It comes from the around the world Advent Calendar. David’s Tea had options, and we jumped at this one. It’s full of teas from around the world, and seemed like a good way to dodge the usual ‘Too many herbal teas in one week’ problem.

It’s a lovely light white tea. Just what the dentist didn’t remember to order.

Here’s a poem about teeth to get the Advent season started. It’s the poem we didn’t expect, for the day we didn’t expect. On the plus side, we’re no longer all tooth. That has to be good, right?

Teeth

Kevin McFadden

For knowledge, says the Old Sage, add; for wisdom,
subtract. My head in a surgeon’s chair, checking Lao Tsu’s math as these teeth I barely knew I had (mumbled of as wisdom) introducedthemselves—rude party guests—right as they hadto go, their pinched goodbye-hello. Like learning
you’ve been speaking your whole life in prose, or my late eighth-grade astonishment that I—confirmed a Gentile in almost all respects—had hung so long among the circumcised.Hard to know what you have, I’ll have you know.Harder to know what you haven’t. Knowledge! The nerve!Hushed up like a gulp behind the tongue,shrewdly shooting roots down at an age my gums were smug from rolling words around, when my morals (like my molars) provedbasically interchangeable. WiseI wasn’t, but I wanted it so painfully then.
Now I’ve had it—you have it, doc. You know the drill, or whatever you’ve got. Take it away . . .

Twelve of the Clock

We were on terrible choral form tonight, singing the descants from the congregation. On the other hand, the chap beside us was clearly singing the tenor line from the congregation, so clearly the choristers of St Thomas’s accept that this is a thing erstwhile choristers do. We’re running with it.

The thing you have to understand is that there are some hymns, like Hark the Herald we can only sing harmony on. We’d have to think far harder about how the melody of verse three goes than if we belted the descant. Ditto the Sing choirs of angels bit in O Come, All Yea Faithful. That’s a bit different though, because years as a specifically British chorister conditioned us to sing Cantet nunc io, cantent agnelorum. We don’t know what it is about Canadian Anglicans that they eschew a good Latin carol when it’s handed to them like that. But ah, well. No one’s hit us on the nose for our congregational descants yet, so we’ll cut them some slack. Tis the season, and that.

We tell you all this because we’ve just squeaked back from midnight mass. It’s supposed to be the Snowstorm of the Century, and for our money the year we had the ice quakes was worse. Okay, so It’s -10 feeling colder out, but the snow has stopped and that first year we moved back it stuck stubbornly at -30 all December. In fact, we walked home from Mass in -30 that year. It wasn’t ideal.

But all that aside, we’re thawing to a late-night cup of Sugerplum Fairy. You’re thinking this is a herbal plum tea, aren’t you? So were we. But it’s pears. Yes, yes, we know. Sugarplum but flavoured with pear. Look, we just report the facts. We don’t try to explain the logic of the eponymous David. Quite honestly, he feels weirdly God-like when we write this blog, in an Old Testament sort of way. A bit whimsical, a bit judgmental, and prone to totally inexplicable decisions. Like naming a tea centred around pears after the Sugarplum Fairy. You think they’d at least pick the dance of the dancing pears from The Nutcracker for this, yes?

  There’s a hint of Christmas spices here, but it’s predominantly a sweet tea. We think it could be a really lovely green tea – the tannin would balance out the sweetness nicely.

Speaking of, that’s 24 days of no green tea. We did discover over breakfast, when we drank Santa’s Secret properly, that it was a green-black hybrid, but we’re not sure that counts. Talk about bizarre decisions.

But you know what they didn’t do this year? They didn’t do that awful coffee-tea hybrid thing we always end up ranting about. You didn’t notice, did you? We never once had to lecture David and Co on how coffee isn’t tea and never the twain shall meet. Is it possible someone reads this blog?

In case they do, we’d better end with something sensible. We know tonight’s tea has a Nutcracker theme, but Thomas Hardy is our tradition. Besides, no one writes a better Christmas Eve poem. We’ve said it before, and we’ll say it again. So, enjoy The Oxen.

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 flock
By the embers in hearthside ease.

We pictured the meek mild creatures where
They dwelt in their strawy pen,
Nor did it occur to one of us there
To doubt they were kneeling then.

So fair a fancy few would weave
In these years! Yet, I feel,
If someone said on Christmas Eve,
“Come; see the oxen kneel,

“In the lonely barton by yonder coomb
Our childhood used to know,”
I should go with him in the gloom,
Hoping it might be so.

Doesn’t he do the loveliest and most unexpected things with wordplay? It’s in the books too, but gets obscured by the sheer agony of, say, Tess. You can pay more attention to linguistic playfulness in Hardy’s poetry because he’s not always battering your heart into fine pieces. Look at the rhymes, too. He’s got a rare gift for true rhyme, and some of them are not obvious.

But enough of that. No oxen kneeling here, but Dachshunds sleeping. That’s this chorister’s cue. Happy Christmas from the Dawlish Dachshunds, the Marscahllin- Cat and the resident Chorister at Home.

Go forth and make a joyful noise, with or without descants. And drink a cup of Christmas tea for us.