As a rule, I’m not a tea drinker, BUT THAT IS CHANGING. (It’s not taking the place of coffee, though. NEVER.)
Once a day, maybe twice, I fix myself a giant mug of tea, or sometimes a whole teapot worth. I fill my electric kettle with water, drizzle a hefty dose of honey into the bottom of a mug, pour in a couple glugs of raw milk, and unwrap a tea bag. When the water’s hot, I fill the mug to the top, give it a stir, and that’s it. Yummy, sweet, milky tea.
I purchased a selection of teas for the wedding celebration, so right now I have all the best to choose from. I’m partial to the Twinings brand: English Breakfast might be my all-time fave, but I also like Earl Gray and Irish Breakfast. While still delicious, herbal teas don’t pair with milk and honey quite as well, so if I have to go decaf, I tend to reach for a basic decaffeinated green tea. (For herbals, I like them all, but I really like Tazo’s flavors, especially the wild sweet orange.)
Have you seen Don’t Look Up yet? Everyone’s raving about it, it seems. Some people are even calling it a “documentary.” They’re not wrong, really. (The critiques aren’t wrong, either.)
My husband and I watched it a couple weeks ago, and it sent me spiraling into a lowgrade depression. It wasn’t a bad depression, per say. Just my typical “world is ending” vibe but with the added realization that by ignoring the imending doom (my coping method of choice), I’m just like those dumb joe shmoes in the movie not looking UP.
I just finished reading The Story of Arthur Truluv by Elizabeth Berg. Though not a thriller, it was still a page-turner. I read it lickety-split.
It has a similar feel to A Man Called Ove (I kept double checking to make sure it wasn’t set in a Scandinavian country). The story is simple, but not simplistic. It’s a kind story, a true story. About love. Truluv.
My husband, younger son, and I just watched season 7 of Alone (the only season available for streaming on Netflix, though it looks like all the seasons might be available for streaming on the History channel) and I can not stop thinking about it.
It’s slower paced and much less sensational than most reality shows, though the producers do try their darndest to jack up the suspense by cutting away right when someone loses their gill net or discovers an animal has gotten into their food cache. Without the hype, I relaxed into the story, marveling over the grueling cold, the diet, the isolation, the raw beauty, and the participants’ mental, emotional, and physical struggles and growth. (At the ending of each episode is a white-toothed guy in a clean garage doing a zoom call chat with participants — skip it.)
This video tour of a Canadian family’s cheese cave(s) makes me ridiculously happy. Maybe I need to upgrade my cheese cave to CocaCola fridge out in the barn? My husband isn’t too keen on that idea. The other option, I said, is to dig out under the house. Would he like that better, hmm?
This same time, years previous: homemade lard, the quotidian (1.11.16), spinach lemon orzo soup, kiddling shenanigans, grilled cheese sandwich with pesto and oven-roasted tomatoes.