Derry, Northern Ireland

Derry, Northern Ireland
A book I'm working on is set in this town.

Friday, September 16, 2011

Nothing beats a cuppa...

Tea, that is. Morning. Evening. If I can have a nice hot mug or even bowl of it (like the French have their coffee with a croissant), I can settle down and do just about anything. It's like the warmth of it opens the pores of my brain to release the thoughts I've been bottling up in my attempts at writing. Nothing else does that, not even Dr. Pepper.

What's funny is, Brendan drinks coffee. His memory of tea is how nasty it tastes after the leaves have been used a few too many times for a few too many people. He embraces coffee the first time he tries it and could live on the stuff...and practically does in the Houston section of POS.

Me, I don't like it. I can't get past the burned flavor. Which is weird because I do enjoy the smell of it as it's brewing. I think the only time I ever was able to tolerate it was when I had an Irish coffee at a restaurant where I worked, but that was because it was so milky and creamy and sweet, I could barely taste the black stuff.

Brendan's revealing a number of things he adjusts into once he's in America -- like how we are such a throw-away society. As he's walking home from work, he finds things in the trash that need minimal repair so brings them back to his place, repairs them and sells them to a second hand shop. He's also amazingly cheap. Suddenly his nickname around his buddies is, "The Irish Jew." But he's the one who always has a little money in times of emergencies, and his way with cash comes in handy in more ways than one.

I need to go back over my blog and see what I've posted of this story, so far. I'm getting ready to share, again, and I don't want to repeat myself. Not too much.

Now it's time to refill my cup.

2 comments:

Penman said...

On cold mornings, to have a pot of tea leaves steeping, a bathrobe on and slippers, a comfy chair to read and feel the heat, cupped in your hands, of the brew. It swirls misty, delicate and mysterious. A perfect storm.

JamTheCat said...

You're the poet. We both know it.