Teabags

Lucy’s column for July 1
Tealo…1
The first time my (now) 47-year-old son, Simon, clapped eyes on a packet of tea-bags was forty years ago, at my parents’ home. In a rare "helping grandma put the shopping away" moment, she found him in the kitchen, studiously emptying each and every tea-bag into the caddy.
It was then my mum realised that the contents of these new-fangled and revolutionary little sachets bore little resemblance to actual tea leaves, dismissed them as the "sweepings-up" – and never, to my knowledge, bought another, reverting to that old-fashioned method of leaf tea and strainers.
It was only about twenty years ago that I, too, clogged up the sink for the last time with the soggy remnants of the pot, and a friend in Mallorca always puts at the top of his regular shopping list to this visitor, along with extra-mature Cheddar and Bramley apples, as many packets of proper, strong tea as I can carry.
But who can blame him. The Mediterraneans and the Continentals may have cornered the market on their coffee-making skills. But they can’t conjure up a decent cuppa. Which is hardly surprising, since their funny little bags, attached to the tea-pot with a piece of twine which gets wound round the stirring spoon, contains only 2.5 grams of tea, where our British brew holds 3.125 grams.
It’s hard to grasp that this month, the tea-bag reaches its centenary, and although we tend to think of the cup that soothes being quintessentially English, the bag was invented by an American – though quite by accident. According to some stirring statistics sent out by Tetley’s to celebrate this birthday, New York tea merchant Thomas Sullivan, in an attempt to cut costs, sent samples of tea leaves to potential customers in small, silk purses. Confused by this marketing ploy, the recipients dunked them into hot water. And the rest, as they say, is history.
But as far as our tea-mashing history goes, the bag is only just over 50 years old, and it took Tetley’s several years to perfect the perfect bag, which now comes in a variety of shapes and sizes, and has, on average, 2,000 little perforations.
But even though its intention is to make life easier for us all, old habits die hard. And at Orgill Towers, the tea-making ritual carries on, because I don’t go along with the dunking-in-a-mug method. Oh no. The tea-pot rules. It’s warmed. The bags are popped in, and it’s at least 30 seconds before pot goes to boiling kettle for the mashing ceremony. The contents are then stirred, and it’s another minute or so before it’s poured, with milk in first.
Himself has been known to make himself a sneaky mash in a mug. The vile, brown stains on the best china (can’t stand pot!) tell the tale. But even if it’s only one cup of Rosie-lea for myself, I make it in what is known as the Brown Betty – a little, fat, earthenware pot which holds one cup – and everybody thinks I’m a little bit barmy.
Not so grandson Jacob. Ever since he’s been trusted to make the family cuppa – four mugs, four tea-bags, no sign of a pot – he’s hung his nose over Betty, and for years pestered me to leave it to him in the will. I went one better. Instead of a chocolate egg last Easter, I bought him his own tiny tea-pot. He now brews with impunity, following granny’s method to the letter. If I’ve taught him one thing, it’s how to make the char that cheers. Incidentally, he becomes a teenager today. He has a lifetime of tea-making ahead of him. I’ll drink to that.
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