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Wednesday, June 26, 2019

Ode to Sweet Tea

      Some things are sacred in the south – sweet iced tea is one of them. You know how valuable something is by what people will sacrifice for it.  I can only imagine how the King’s tea tax smote the heart of our Revolutionary forbears.  Their devotion to country cost them dearly.  Yet, Southerners have always prized liberty, even more than tea. That’s quite a statement.
      For our ancestors to participate in the Boston Tea Party must have been a true test of a southerner’s determination. Imagine the angst of seeing hundreds of pounds of tea floating in the scum of the Boston harbor. To pour out such a precious beverage to the unappreciative fish would be a true sorrow.  Such describes for us their desire for liberty.
      When you consider the fact that the first southerners were Virginians, you start to understand the southerner’s affinity for tea.  Being English gentlemen, drinking tea was not only tasty refreshment, it was a social act.  Teatime is a strict observance in English society—a deference for custom and etiquette.  It’s about what is right and proper; the definition of good taste.  And today it is still so.  What southern hostess would not offer a glass of sweet iced tea to her guests?
      Those Virginian settlers brought with them their pride, their magnificent horses, their gracious style of living, and their tea.  A Virginian gentleman was known by his horse, his fashion in clothing, and his manners--drinking tea was one of them.
      Of course, those genteel first Southerners drank their tea hot.  It was a couple centuries later before Dixie-Landers enjoyed it cold.   Just who “invented” iced tea is not known, but there are a few interesting facts about it.  Many ascribe to the theory that it was first served at the 1904 World’s Fair in St. Louis, Missouri.  However, a news article published fourteen years before the Fair seems to prove that account wrong.  
      In September of 1890, 15,000 men gathered in Nevada, Missouri for the Missouri State Reunion of Ex-Confederate Veterans.  There was an enormous banquet served, and included in the list of menu items was “880 gallons of iced tea.”   (Nevada Noticer, September 28, 1890. Nevada, MO.)
It doesn’t surprise me that sons of the South were enjoying the cool refreshment of iced tea before the rest of the world had discovered it. 
      Pat Villmer of the St. Louis World's Fair Society wrote that tea " wasn't 'invented' at the World's Fair. The good people of the South were serving iced tea in their homes long before the Fair. It was just popularized at the Fair. It was called sweet tea served cool not hot in the summer in the South. Ice, when available, was used. Remember, ice was the premium in the early days before refrigeration, not tea." (http://www.lyndonirwin.com/1904%20Tea.htm)
      However and whenever it came into vogue, sweet iced tea is the gem of the South. No oil rig in Texas is more highly prized than the pitcher of sweet tea which has a special place in each southern refrigerator.  
      Like all good Southerners, I rate my restaurants by their tea. “They have good tea” is a fabulous recommendation for any eatery.  From the franchises to the Main Street diners, it’s a precious secret—strong, fresh, and sweet.  
      There are a few things that help this time-honored tradition of tea-making. First is the color and taste.  Tea should be a dark amber hue, decidedly sweet (bordering on “syrup” but not like a sickly elixir), and fresh.  Tea can be tainted by its container—it can taste soured like old plastic or sudsy like dish soap.  It has the best flavor if allowed to “settle” a few hours to allow the tanic acid and sugar to mix well. 
      Second is the presentation.  Sweet iced tea tastes good out of anything – Granny’s metal tumblers, fancy stemware, or paper Dixie cups.  I’ve enjoyed good tea out of glass pitchers and plastic milk jugs at church dinners (there’s nothing quite as southern as a drink table laden with a bevy of milk jugs filled with tea and with “sweet” written in black marker on the side).  
      A friend who lived in South Carolina once told me that the word sweet is added to tea to make a sort of new compound word:  “sweet-tea.”  It is said with a light emphasis on the first syllable.  
      There’s hardly an occasion where sweet iced tea doesn’t serve well.  Fare thee well, exotic libations of refinement and expense.  Forget the sticky stains of Kool-Aid and the watery brine of Gatorade. Save the milk for breakfast and the water for bedtime.  Make mine sweet tea.  It doesn’t lose its fizz or coat the stomach or up the sodium.  Refreshing and delightful, it is the comfort beverage of the South.  Served on the veranda swing or on the Sunday table, add a slice of lemon and you’re good to go.  At least, I am.  

Friday, September 7, 2018

the freshman class


Lafayette College, Easton, PennsylvaniaSonoma slapped the cover of the book shut and stared out the window. The campus of the little Christian college was pretty in the autumn. Sugar maples and oaks scattered colorful leaves like a child shaking glitter from a bottle. The afternoon sun cast a tawny glow over the stone buildings. A few students were walking over to the dining hall—probably going to the Coffee Nook where everyone gathered for snacks and conversation. She ought to head that way herself. 
     Her college experience thus far had been like riding Dippity Street back home in Centerville—a succession of highs and lows. She had welcomed them all since God put her here in the first place. But, she had to admit, collateral reading was not on her list of favorite things.
     The door flung open. It was her roommate, Beverly. She was grinning. “Come on, Roomie. I just saw him.”
     Sonoma didn’t have to ask who. She rolled her eyes. “Let up, Bev.” 
     Beverly didn’t listen. She shoved back a strand of brown hair that had escaped her thick braid. “You’ve read enough. Let’s go.” 
     Sonoma grabbed her book bag and her brown hoodie on the way out. The weather was getting chillier every day. The Coffee Nook was crowded with students — talking, eating, studying, and laughing. Sonoma had discovered that Bible college was certainly not a dull place to be; she was enjoying the friendships she had already found here.  
     He was sitting with his back to them. Weston Lane. A name that belonged with ranches and big skies. He owned a truck, played the guitar, was an Eagle Scout, had 2 little sisters — was there anything else? Oh, yes, he didn’t have a girlfriend.
     “Let’s amble over there.” Bev nudged her.
     “Are you sure about this?” Sonoma looked at her sideways.
     “Hey, he’s your brother. Let’s just join the group.” 
     Sonoma shook her head and pulled her roommate along with her. Wes was a good sport, but he didn’t usually appreciate her match-making skills. She told him that all good preachers need a wife and he had better be looking before he graduated. But he just chucked her under the chin and said he had plenty of time. 
     He looked up as they approached. “Hi, sis. You girls done with the books for today?” 
     “Taking a break, I guess. I have some research to do in the library.” 
     Beverly was kicking her in the shin. “Bev here was wanting to see if you had notes for that Psychology class she missed.” 
     Wes reached into his backpack and extracted a notebook. “It should be in here. Have a seat, Bev, and I’ll find them for you.” 
     Behind his back, Bev gave an impish grin and waved her head in the direction of the door. Guess that meant it was time for Sonoma to exit. 
     “Ok, then, I’m going to get this research done. See you guys later.” 
     The library was welcoming — neat shelves of books, attractive study areas and warm track lighting. Sonoma found her favorite spot empty, sank into the leather chair and immediately lost herself in the research book. It was only when she saw a pair of brown hiking boots in front of her that she realized there was a backpack already nestled against the chair. She looked up. 
     “American Lit, right? Bev said you had a paper to write.” Sonoma knew she must look confused. 
     He stuck out his hand. “Bale Smithton. Bev’s my sister.”
     “Wait . . .you came to my church this summer with a singing group . . .” 
     “Wes told me you’d remember. Want to go down to the study area? I had this class last year. Maybe I can point you to the right books.” 
     She smiled. “That would be nice.”
     Call it a sibling conspiracy; call it providence; call it the amazing plans of God. As Sonoma picked up her books, she suddenly knew Daddy’s parting words were true. Following God’s will for your life was more exciting than a drive down Dippity Street. And the trip was just beginning. Maybe her roommate's brother would be part of it. You just never could tell. 
— VQ

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