The Comfort of Tea (and Toast)

I uncovered some old childhood memories yesterday.  I woke up with a bad head cold which got worse & worse throughout the day, till by the evening I was feverish and couldn't breathe. 

Red eyes, tissues stuffed up my nose, I dragged myself into the kitchen to make tea and find something to eat that I could prepare quickly and take back to bed with me.

The memory that washed over me was so sweet and so comforting.  There was a period when I was little and got sick that my single-working-mom would take me to grandma's house.  Grandma would tuck me under a blanket on the living room sofa where she could keep an eye on me, and bring me a cup of hot tea and buttered toast on a small plate. Some days, when I was really sick, she would use her special china plate and cup that normally I wouldn't be allowed to touch.  Even at my most miserable, she could usually coax me into sipping the tea and nibbling at the toast. 

I know there aren't any grand, magical medicinal properties in the combination of black tea and toast, but they became, in my child's mind, the cure for all that ailed me.  The taste of the tea and the toast were comforting in themselves, true.  But more than that, they came to represent grandma's care and comfort.

So, I poured my tea into one of grandma's good china tea cups - one of the few things I still had of hers that hadn't gotten broken or lost over the years.  I made myself a slice of toast to go with my tea, lathered with butter.  I poured gobs of honey into that pretty china tea cup, and tucked myself into bed, propped up on my pillows.  I felt better as I ate and sipped, comforted by tea and toast, and by the memories of somebody who loved me and took care of me when I felt like crap.