Concerning The Teabag

(Please click on the title for a reading aloud by the author.)

Uncle Horace, my dad’s brother who he affectionately called “Brother Rat” for reasons which remain obscure, had impeccable manners and being a proper Bostonian there was no fooling around with them. My dad also had impeccable manners, but he was a playful trouble maker. And so begins the story of how the two of them parried on how to squeeze a teabag.

Horace loved tea. Dad usually drank coffee but welcomed a cup of tea when his brother offered one, mainly I think, for the opportunity to irk him. When Horace’s tea had steeped sufficiently he would put the bag in his spoon over the cup and wind the string around it. He would then give the string a little tug and when the bag had drained he would then set it on the saucer. He would do this with particular care, maybe even pomp and circumstance and then look up and smirk, all as if to say, “that is the proper method, so there.”

My dad would then yank the bag out of his cup, look at Horace, grasp the hot dangling packet with his fingers and squeeze it for all it was worth. He would then let go of the bag, hold it up and inspect it. He might squeeze it again if he thought there was another drop to be had. I always expected he might then fling it across the room if a trash basket was in sight, but instead he would delicately place it on the saucer. For added effect, he would take his first sip of the tea with a good loud slurp.

Horace would sit there, repulsed and seething with disdain.

The apple does not fall far from the tree, so while I know it is bad manners, I squeeze a teabag like my dad. Years after my dad died I was visiting the northeast. Horace at the time lived in a suburb of Boston and we made a date to meet at the Boston Museum of Fine Arts to wander around a bit and have lunch. It was a Sunday and Horace showed up wearing his usual uniform, a Brooks Brothers suit. I had dressed up for the occasion in a newish pair of jeans and dress shirt, and might have even gone over my shoes with a damp sponge.

We had a fine time touring around the galleries, and then headed for the Upper Level Galleria restaurant – the downstairs café was not an option. The upstairs restaurant offers, “seasonally inspired, artfully prepared cuisine marked with an emphasis on sustainable, local ingredients (in a) casual-contemporary atmosphere.” Indeed, this is Boston, this is the MFA, and make no mistake the clientele bleed blue. Hoity-toityness aside, the place does have class, it provides a welcome respite from the hustle and bustle and the food is delicious. So, Horace and I gave each other a look acknowledging our mutual appreciation of the hostess’s withers, obediently followed her to a table, took our comfortable seats and dined. Interesting salads and entrées arrived, empty tableware got whisked away; serve left take away right. Then it was time for dessert. And tea.

We each got a little stainless steel pot with the teabag’s string and paper tab hanging out from under the cover. Horace opened his pot, pulled out the teabag, placed it in his spoon, wound the string around the bag and with satisfaction plain for all to see, gave it a little tug. All was right with the world. His at least. I watched him carefully but because I like strong tea, let mine steep longer. I opened my pot, pulled up the bag and was about to give it a squeeze… and then the whole thing came back to me. I started to pick up my spoon, but reconsidered. I then grabbed a hold of the bag and with obvious glee gave it a thorough squeeze with my fingers. I didn’t look at Horace directly, but I knew he was watching me like a hawk. He winced. Nevertheless he was still good enough to pick up the bill.

Gordon Bunker

ps.

One Thanksgiving I was setting the table, all in heirloom linen, silver, china and crystal. The whole thing was quite an affair and those tables were beautiful. Horace was watching me and when it came to the butter knives he asked, “Do you know where those go?” He was twinkling, just itching to point out the correct position and teach this wayward spawn of his heathen brother a lesson.

I looked him in the eye and said, “here,” as I placed the butter knife transverse to the setting between the bread and butter plate and glassware. With the handle pointing right, of course. The poor guy, deflated, slumped into the saddest picture of disbelief. Ha ha!

GB