Let There be Tea

Where did it all begin? According to ancient legend, one that sounds entirely plausible to me, the concept of brewing tea originated with Chinese Emperor Shen Nung around 2735 B.C.E. Apparently the emperor was fixing himself a nice pot of delicious boiled water, when some dried leaves from a nearby Camillia Sinensis plant, wafting on a gentle breeze, fluttered into the Emperor’s pot where they quietly steeped for a time. When the Emperor tasted this accidental brew, he knew he was on to something.  He enthusiastically approved of the flavor—not to mention the pulse-pounding caffeine rush. No doubt this was one of his most productive days ever. Word spread quickly throughout the land, and voila! An entire industry was born.

Since no eyewitnesses have come forward to dispute this story, I’m taking it as fact—except the part about the Emperor boiling his own water. Come on.  He probably had a royal staff person for that, or perhaps an over-achieving concubine.

Eventually Emperor Shen Nung’s discovery worked its way around the globe. Today the only beverage in the world that people drink more of is water. Statistically, Americans still prefer coffee to tea, a tradition believed to be born of spite, dating back to 1773 and that nasty little Boston Harbor fracas.  It only took 235 years, but tea is regaining a strong foothold in the United States. Americans have even made a couple of important contributions to tea-drinking society, like the first teabag, and the first iced tea, a beverage that apparently only Americans enjoy. Across the pond where tea is practically an art form, only hot tea will do, accompanied by crumpets, or perhaps some nice boiled meat.

Iced or hot, tea has become so popular that the Tea Association of the U.S.A. Inc. estimates half of the U.S. population drank some tea every day in 2007.  That’s really something don’t you think? And who’s drinking all this tea?  Part of it can be attributed to a more diverse population who grew up around other tea drinkers. There are also a lot of new consumers attracted by the groundswell of scientific studies touting the health benefits of tea, and people who just want an alternative to sugary soft drinks. For me, the most appealing thing about tea is the wonderful, tasty and refreshing variety.

Decisions, Decisions

If you’ve browsed the tea section at your local grocery or specialty store recently, you know it can be a bit daunting, like selecting a new toothpaste. Remember when all toothpaste was white mint, and the only decision was fluoride or non-fluoride?  Yah, neither do I.

Selecting a tea variety may take a little time, but deciding is half the fun. Think of it as redecorating the den. First consider the color palate. There’s green, black, white, darjeeling and oolong—okay, those last two aren’t actually colors. Then there’s atmosphere. Do you prefer it hot or cold; a lively caffeinated, a restful decaf, or perhaps a mellow herbal? As for decor, should you use the elegant silver, traditional china, or my personal favorite, the chipped ceramic? Honestly, I haven’t encountered this much decision-making since my last trip to Starbucks.

Interestingly, all black, oolong, green and white tea comes from the same type of evergreen plant, the time-tested (and Emperor-approved) Camillia Sinensis. It’s the variations in how it’s processed that give each type of tea its distinctive color and flavor, from the strongest black tea, to the mildest green or white. Oolong falls diplomatically in the middle. Blending any of these with your favorite herbs, spices, fruit or even flowers, awakens a world of variety. My favorite is jasmine green tea, hot.

Orange Pekoe Meets Earl Grey

Another colorful tea that sounds delightfully refreshing is “Orange Pekoe.”  Mmmm.  Doesn’t it make you picture a tall, frosted glass filled with a delightful orange and tea infusion, garnished perhaps with a sprig of fresh mint and a lemon zest curling gracefully—oh, who am I kidding?  It turns out orange pekoe is only a unit of tea measurement, not refreshment. It’s the second tealeaf from the end of the stem. And get this—it’s not even orange. What a gyp. (Note to self:  Mimosas later.)

If, however, Orange Pekoe were a tea flavor, it would be called Earl Grey. This popular variety blends black tea with citrus oil from the bergamot orange. Like our old friend the Emperor, Earl Charles Grey was also a prominent historic figure, known to all as the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom in the mid 1800s. While some may remember him for his political career, most people today just know him for his jolly good spot of tea.

It takes the combined efforts of China, India (Darjeeling), and parts of Asia, South America and Africa to produce enough tea to supply today’s nearly $2 billion industry. Though the plant varies slightly by region, it is essentially the same product.  Sort of makes you want to invest in lemon slices, doesn’t it?

Tea is a Relative Term

There are a lot of herbal “teas” on the market that are perfectly enjoyable, but contain no Camillia Sinensis whatsoever. Each blend has its own unique flavors and qualities, and all are caffeine free. The selection of herbals is extensive, with acres of temping combinations to suit any palate or mood.  It can be hard to choose just one. Can’t decide? How about inventing an original concoction, like chamomile-mint-citrus-berry? You could name it after yourself, like a star or a disease, and be forever immortalized in tea.

Iced or De-Iced

If you’re in the mood for iced tea with a little something extra, or a bit more festive, try the Arnold Palmer–iced tea mixed with lemonade.  It’s quick, simple and virtually foolproof.  For those who prefer iced tea with a kick, there’s Carolina Iced Tea, a potent combination of 4 parts alcohol and 5 parts sweetened tea, which is the official hospitality drink of the Palmetto State.  There are a lot of other similarly named concoctions (Long Island, etc.) but most of them use fruit juice or other sweet mixers instead of tea.  Pity that.

Tea Etiquette

Without going into great detail, proper tea drinking comes with a whole raft of rules. To list a few, use lemon slices, not wedges; milk, not cream; pinkies raised but slightly bent; no looping of the fingers in the teacup handle; no clinky stirring; and absolutely no slurping. The cup/spoon/saucer regulations are a study in precision akin to River Dancing, and they take some practice to master. I’m still working on my skills. I keep dropping my spoon, and my tea-stained lap looks like a Rorschach test.

I’m a Little Teapot

Any kitchen gadget shop offers the basic brewing supplies, and antique stores are an excellent source for unusual teapots, ranging from elegant, to quaint, to just plain silly. Part of the fun of the whole tea ritual is the assortment of accouterment. For starters, who doesn’t admire the craftsmanship of a fine tea chest, and the orderly array of blends inside? If you’re a fan of loose tea, you already know the giddy schoolgirl delight of filling a tea ball with your favorite leafy mélange. While the teakettle fixes to boil, you might browse your collection of whimsical teapots to select the perfect vessel, and perhaps tuck it snugly into a colorful quilted cozy.

The whistling kettle is your cue to fill your teapot with piping hot water. You lower your teabag (or tea ball) gently into the pot where it steeps to orange pekoe perfection. With the brewing process underway, take a few moments to assemble a tempting tray of cookies, or crumpets, or more boiled meat, if you please.  Now, just pour and enjoy like Emperor Shen Nung intended.

Madam LaRue: “Welcome to Madam LaRue’s Fortune Emporium. Would you like a nice cup of tea before we begin?”

Client: “Why thank you, Madam LaRue. That would be lovely, and how kind of you to offer.”

The soft whir of a dishwasher is heard in the background. Madam LaRue is concerned because this is only the first wash cycle. She’ll have to stall for timed (a lot of it), or improvise. She returns with the tea.

Client (getting right to the point): “Where is your crystal ball Madam LaRue?”

Madam LaRue (freezes like a Tzar on the O’Reilly Factor): “Shh! Your tea leaves! They’re speaking to me!!”

Client: “Huh?”

Madam LaRue (winging it like a duck at gunpoint): “You must listen to me very carefully, and do exactly as I say. Quickly, finish your tea. Then place your empty cup on the saucer, and spin it around—clockwise—three times.”

Client (downs her tea, and spins her cup): “Like this?”

Madam LaRue: “Yes. Just like that. Okay, stop!”

Client (looking skeptical): “Now what?”

Madam LaRue: “Now lift your cup, place the saucer on top of it, and then—um—flip them both over.”

Client (suddenly wishing she hadn’t paid in cash): “I’ve never heard of this, Madam LaRue. Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

Madam LaRue: “Trust me. The leaves never lie.”

Client (obediently flips the cup): “There. Now what?”

Madam LaRue: “Now we let the remaining liquid drain onto the saucer.”

The clock ticks. Shadows lengthen. The cows come home.

Client (bored, drums her fingers on the inverted cup): “So…is that it?”

Madam LaRue: “No, now you must turn the cup over to see your fortune.”

Client (peeking under the cup): “I see soggy leaves on a saucer.”

Madam LaRue (her reputation at stake, and her Toastmasters membership about to pay off big time): “Yes, it’s all very clear to me. The leaves on the rim tell of your present. The leaves sticking to the sides tell of your near future. And the leaves on the bottom reveal your distant future. Their position to the cup handle reveals how soon the events will occur.”

Client: “Wow, that’s amazing, Madam LaRue!  What are the leaves telling you?”

Madam LaRue: “They’re telling me to serve tea more often!”

I’m told there are 1000 places I need to see before I die.  Even if I started right now, I’d have to visit one place, every month for the next 83 years.  It’s unlikely I’m going to make it.  Instead I’ve decided to take another tack, and consider the places I’m definitely not going to see.  Let’s begin with Hell House.

Hell House sits in a remote wooded area just outside of Ilchester, Maryland.  You know, out there by Ellicott City, southwest of Baltimore on I-40.  You can’t miss it.  Hell House was originally built just after the Civil War.  The passage of time, and a couple of fires has left only the sad, crumbling remains of what was once an impressive structure.  Today, its appearance just adds to the creepiness of the sooty, red brick derelict.

It seems there are several schools of thought on the history of Hell House.  I prefer the ones that probably aren’t true.  In its heyday Hell House was anything but hellish.  It was originally built by the Redemptionists to be a seminary for young priests.  Then at some point, as the story goes, it was inexplicably converted to a school for girls.  This is where the facts get hazy and the story gets weird.  Local lore says that something sinister happened at the school, involving a length of rope, a deranged priest, a pentagram and five young girls (or possibly nuns).  Oh, and a gun that the priest used when he, how shall I say this—lost his head?  A variation of this story has all of the school’s inhabitants dying of pneumonia, leaving their tortured spirits behind.

Of course, there are no surviving eyewitnesses to any of this, but many locals, and some visitors who dare to venture out to Hell House will insist that it’s haunted.  They say that if you listen very carefully you can still hear the blood-curdling screams of the girls.  I suspect anyone with teenage daughters already knows this sound.  Others swear that they experience cold spots in the house, as well as at the top of the long, stone staircase that leads up to the site.  There is no record of the time of year these “cold spots” were experienced, but if it’s Maryland in August, you’ve got my attention.  Then again, climbing a staircase of approximately 60 steps is enough to give anyone a cold, clammy infarction.

Not much remains of the stately old manse, but the crumbling façade has revealed some pretty curious features found underneath.  Let’s consider the secret entrance, and the pit that leads to the labyrinth underground tunnels.  Hmm.  Perhaps the better question is, who in their right mind would go through the secret entrance, climb down into the pit and discover these subterranean tunnels?  I’m content to believe they exist, and just leave it at that.  You don’t have to prove anything to me.

Now, you could speculate that the pit and tunnels were part of a cistern and an elaborate water delivery system. The secret entrance may have been nothing more than a storm shelter.  But where’s the fun in that?

Another version of the story holds that Hell House, built on a Civil War battleground, was originally a popular finishing school for wealthy debutantes.  The proprietors were warned about the land’s bloody past before they bought it, but they proceeded to build their school on the site anyway.  (Didn’t I see this in a Spielberg film?)

Anyway, years passed and the school thrived without incident, until the proprietor’s daughter, Agatha, began hearing eerie voices in her head.  Then, on the night of her Coming Out party, at the age of 16, Agatha died a violent and mysterious death.  Her grieving mother was never the same.  She walked the grounds at night looking for her beloved Aggie.  Eventually she reunited with her daughter, thanks to the help of a sturdy rope and a tall bell tower.  What is it with these people and rope?

The townsfolk suspected that Agatha’s father murdered his wife. They didn’t think she was capable of doing such a thing to herself.  Though he never admitted any wrongdoing, he was consumed with guilt for everything that happened to his family.  He abruptly closed the school and sold the property to the clergy in the hope that this would cleanse the land.  Which brings us back to the homicidal priest and the schoolgirls.  I’m no expert on cleansings, but I’d have to say this one didn’t work.

Another train of thought on Hell House, and probably the correct one, is that it has always been a fine and respectable place.  See?  I told you I preferred the other stories.  The seminary known as St. Mary’s College was indeed built by the Redemptionists in Ilchester in the 1800s.  It remained in operation until the early 1970s when it closed due to declining enrollment.  That is both amazing and sad.

Writer’s note:  In the interest of political correctness, and with sensitivity and regard for the advocates of both sides of this controversy, “Hell House” and “St. Mary’s College” will now be referred to simply as “The House.”

In the waning years of the seminary, The House fell victim to vandals and was burned at least twice by arsonists.  The sinister appearance of the remaining, burned out hulk is likely what sparked imaginations, conjuring legends of mass murder at the convent.  Personally, I would have chosen something more festive, like an asylum.  But that’s just me.  The pentagram was likely added to the story for texture.  What, no hockey masks?  No chain saws?  It is said that for a time, after the seminary closed, worshipers of the occult occupied The House.  This leads to a subset of even more macabre carryings-on. It also lends credence to the Hell House theory.  However, most local Ilchesterites will tell you that no schoolgirls or nuns were harmed in the making of these tawdry tales.

One scary thing about The House that everyone seems to agree on is its feisty caretaker, Allen Rufus Hudson (a.k.a. The Hermit, a.k.a The Hillbilly), and his team of Rottweilers.  This place just keeps getting more interesting all the time, doesn’t it?

Colorful stories about Mr. Hudson abound.  Not surprising, though, even his existence is steeped in controversy.  Some say the old man is still up there, guarding The House.  Others maintain he’s passed on to that big, gated community in the sky.

Where ever he is, this much is certain—you didn’t mess with Mr. Hudson.  The House has long been a favorite haunt for teenagers and thrill seekers looking to drink some brewskies and scare their girlfriends.  But Hudson, “The Care-takenator,” didn’t cotton to trespassers.  Even the local authorities cautioned people to steer clear of him—not The House, mind you.  Him.  And who could blame him for being testy?  He was living at The House when the second fire was set, and he narrowly escaped with his life.  He was once confronted by a group of hooligans wielding baseball bats, and when he tried to defend himself, he was charged with assault.  Of course, blasting them with his shotgun probably had something to do with that.  It’s odd, because his previous charges of assault and battery were always dismissed.  Ilchester rocks!

Earliest accounts of The House show that a local businessman built Phase I to be a tavern, intending to serve travelers passing through town on the B&O Railroad.  When business didn’t pan out, he sold the property to the Redemptionists for a tidy sum of $15,000, and they built their seminary.  The rascals integrated the tavern into their construction plans—but they converted it into residences and later added a chapel.

Like many other places in New England, Ilchester, Maryland gets its name from European roots.  The original Ilchester is a tiny town in Somerset County, England that dates back to Roman times, though under another name.  Today, it’s home to the Ilchester Cheese Company, the leading specialty cheese exporter in the UK.  Since I don’t know how many other UK cheese exporters there are, I can’t speak to the magnitude of this distinction.  I’m sure they make a fine product.

Our little Ilchester has a population 31,700, and is most often associated with nearby Ellicott City, named for George Ellicott Jr., the man who sold the tavern to the Redemptionists.  It’s probably best known for its proximity to Baltimore.

In my travels to Maryland, I never realized how close I’ve come to The House.  I’ll bet I’ve probably flown over it several times without even knowing.  Now that I think about it, during one final decent into BWI airport, I did feel an uncomfortable cold sensation, but that may have been from the ginger ale I spilled in my lap.