By Liane Carwardine
My husband, Robert, introduced me to the electric kettle. Before marrying him, I heated water in the microwave or, if I needed it really hot, the stove. But Rob hails from England and found my Floridian methods, well, frankly, barbaric. Over the last 17 years of marriage, which include three moves, a dog, three sons (and all their activities), we’ve gone through several kettles.
At the end of every day, when the craziness of work, sports, dishes, and bedtime is finally winding down, Rob pops the kettle on. He picks two mugs, usually mismatched, and waits for the little blue button to ding. I rarely make the tea; we joke that he’s better at it because it’s in his blood.
We’ve had many matching mugs over the years, but they never last. We’ve tested various teas but have settled on Yorkshire black with a splash of milk. If we’re feeling adventurous, we might even break out our fancy English teapot with the blue cozy and have two cups.
Every night, we snuggle on the couch with our steaming drinks and bask in the silence of our home. Sometimes, the dryer is humming away, or the dishwasher sounds a little louder than it should. But we look forward to this nightly ritual. When days are extra hectic, we crave it and will look at each and one of us will say, “Dang, I can’t wait for tea later!”
17 years, thousands of teabags, chipped mugs, and emergency milk runs. We’ve drunk tea through calm evenings, stressful bill-paying sessions, and our house flooding. We bring it to our kids’ baseball games and cuddle up on wooden bleachers. We drink it on its own and sometimes with “biscuits.”
I’m a Florida girl at heart, but I’ve been converted.
I don’t know what the years hold for us, but I know every night, my husband will ask if I want tea, and I’ll always say yes. With mugs in hand, we’ll weather our storms together. Or, as Rob would say, “Keep calm and carry on.”
