However it happened, in my grazing of the state of the world yesterday, the fact that it was International Tea Day escaped my notice. Mind you, if I tracked down the number of causes tacked onto yesterday, I would probably come up with a lot. Who knows what and whom I have ignored?
Still, remnants on Twitter tell me it was indeed #InternationalTeaDay. I just happen to have an entry from my novel about Kafka devoted to tea. Well steeped.
07 February 1917
I imagine if I wanted to fully know about tea, it would take me years. The various kinds, how they are picked and dried. The various blends, and their numerous properties. The effects they are supposed to have on the body. Purgers and restorers. And how tea is shipped, the ways it must be stored. The proper preparation for the cup – the implements used. The procedures just to pour. I imagine there are people who devote their lives to this subject as do I to my writing. Who revel in this knowledge, as I do over words. Sometimes, I think there could be nothing more comfortable and comforting, than to be F. Kafka, Tea Merchant. My father would be ecstatic.