I knew the Covid-19 pandemic was for real when my mother told me she’d consider using powdered milk in her cup of tea.
This revelation may seem inane given the daily reports of global suffering and despair but, to be frank, nothing I’d seen or heard hit me as hard as this confession.
For as long as I can remember, my mum has taken pride in two things: Her involvement in the local Catholic church and her Scottish heritage.
While the former may be a direct result of the latter, her ancestral roots also lend power to an absolute truth: there is no problem in the world that cannot be solved by a well-made cup of tea.
As a scientist, I marvel at the strict procedure that must be followed to achieve this result. Recently boiled (but not boiling) water must be poured over a tea bag containing New Zealand’s very own blend of leaves, steeped for three minutes, before bag removal is achieved with a teaspoon. Finally, a splash of milk is added to the cup, swirling like clouds into the amber depths.
In recent days, strict restrictions put in place by a caring Government imprisoned my mother in her home. For the first time in her life she was unable to go to church, cruelly at a time when the words and community would have helped her most. Suddenly, her world was limited to what she had gathered and stored in the weeks prior, when troubled whispers drifted across the Pacific. Taking her ancestors’ lessons to heart, she collected enough tea bags to survive the apocalypse. Fresh and easily spoilable milk, however, would prove a challenge. That’s why she purchased the milk powder.
The idea that she would taint her infallible ritual seemed the clearest sign to date that the end was nigh and, indeed, it was that afternoon that the New York state government made the call which effectively choked the city where I now live. Suddenly, it wasn’t just my mother’s tea that was contaminated; the silence which abruptly cloaked the once-boisterous streets of Manhattan was pierced only by the sounds of ambulance sirens. Supermarket shelves were emptied, and the faces of the few that ventured from their homes were full of anxiety and fear.
My daily ritual now centres around the truth my mother taught me, that her mother taught her, and that can be traced back to the Highlands. Sitting down to Governor Andrew Cuomo’s daily sermon, I know that there is no problem that cannot be assuaged by a hot cup of coffee. I’m a New Yorker now, after all. Earl Grey just isn’t my cup of tea.
