First-Light Tea
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There is a point every morning when the garden changes shifts.
I don’t know how else to describe it.
The insects have been working all night, singing beneath the windows and rustling through the grass and doing whatever mysterious insect business requires such late hours.
Then the sky begins to lighten.
One by one, they go quiet.
And the birds arrive.
Not all at once.
At first there will be one sensible little bird in the hedge.
I like that bird.
We have similar ideas about mornings.
Then another wakes up.
Then three more.
And before long the entire garden is full of tiny feathered creatures celebrating the astonishing discovery that the sun has, once again, returned.
This usually happens around the same time my kettle boils.
Coincidence?
Probably.
But I like to imagine the kettle is somehow involved.
Today’s tea is lemon balm, mint, and honey.
The lemon balm beside the kitchen steps has become enormous.
I don’t remember giving it permission to do this, but plants rarely consult me about their ambitions.
The mint is worse.
Mint does not grow.
Mint advances.
At this point, drinking it regularly feels less like herbalism and more like defending the cottage.
So.
A handful of lemon balm.
A few mint leaves.
Hot water.
And a little honey after steeping.
Nothing complicated.
I bruise the leaves between my fingers before putting them into the pot. Just enough to wake them up.
The lemon balm smells soft and green and faintly lemony.
The mint smells as though it has been awake for hours and has several suggestions.
I pour over the water, cover the pot, and leave everything alone for a few minutes.
This may be the most important part.
Tea needs time when nobody is interfering with it.
I suspect people do too.
While it steeps, I lean against the open window.
The last bit of night is still tucked beneath the trees, but the garden is beginning to find its colors again.
First the foxgloves.
Then the rosemary.
The tomatoes emerge from the shadows looking as dramatic as ever.
One of them has escaped its stake again.
I pretend not to notice.
The birds are fully committed to morning now.
Something in the apple tree has been repeating the same four notes for several minutes with enormous confidence.
Smokey has appeared in the kitchen.
He stretches.
Looks at me.
Looks at the birds.
And sits directly on my foot.
Apparently this concludes his morning routine.
By the time the tea is ready, the sky has gone from blue to lavender at the edges.
I strain the herbs and stir in a spoonful of honey.
The first sip is mostly lemon balm.
Then the mint arrives.
The honey stays behind after both of them.
It tastes like waking up gently.
Not starting the day.
That’s different.
Starting the day sounds like something involving shoes.
This is only waking up.
Opening the window.
Drinking something warm.
Watching the garden come back into focus.
Letting yourself arrive at roughly the same speed as the light.
Whatever happens after that can happen after that.
The basket can stay on its hook.
The herbs aren’t going anywhere.
Even the tomato can remain dramatically horizontal for another ten minutes.
The tea is still warm.
The morning is still new.
And I see no reason to rush either of us.
First-Light Tea
For one generous mug:
- 1–2 teaspoons fresh lemon balm, lightly bruised
- 4–6 fresh mint leaves
- 10–12 ounces hot water
- honey, to taste
Cover and steep for 5–7 minutes.
Strain, add honey, and drink somewhere you can see the morning happening.
Open windows are particularly good.
Bare feet are optional.
Bird commentary will be provided whether requested or not.
— Maeve
☕ Maeve's Cozy Tea RitualsA curated collection of teas, mugs, honey, infusers, and cozy companions inspired by quiet mornings at Moonbeam Cottage.
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