Camomile conundrum
September 17th 2008 06:36
I have trained myself to like herbal tea. It didn’t come easily and it still feels a bit strange to drink a mug of weakly flavoured hot water and still manage a lip-smacking sigh of satisfaction at the end. But I did it.
It’s all to do with attitude. I was a latte drinker for many years, and there is nothing as vastly removed from the smooth, caffeine infused creaminess of Italy’s finest product as a mug of hot water. Vaguely scented.
And speaking of scent. It’s the one thing which drives me potty dotty about the herbal experience. If the tea tasted as fantastic as it smelled, the experience would be sublime. But it doesn’t. While my nose hairs are sent into twists of ecstacy at the mere whiff of a raspberry and vanilla herbal refreshment, my tongue lies like a cold lizard before the early morning sunbake cranks the blood flow up a notch.
But I persist. It’s good for me. I trained my palate to ignore the protests coming from my lizard tongue.
Until last night. Herbal tea is a little like major surgery. It’s fine as long as you don’t have to see it yourself.
At a restaurant last night in the Nation’s Capital, I was presented with the unfortunately macerated remains of what must have once been a living, photosynthesising camomile plant with big, wet buds of yellow wattle-esque pollen.
I like my camomile in a tea bag where I don’t have to see it and it doesn’t actually taste of camomile. The real deal was a cloying assault on my throat and felt like I had taken out my epiglottis and ordered it to kiss every flower in the neighbouring florist.
So the long and the short is, the tea bag is the herbal refreshment of the future. Sometimes the real deal is not all it’s cracked up to be.
Signed
Grumpy Herbalist
It’s all to do with attitude. I was a latte drinker for many years, and there is nothing as vastly removed from the smooth, caffeine infused creaminess of Italy’s finest product as a mug of hot water. Vaguely scented.
And speaking of scent. It’s the one thing which drives me potty dotty about the herbal experience. If the tea tasted as fantastic as it smelled, the experience would be sublime. But it doesn’t. While my nose hairs are sent into twists of ecstacy at the mere whiff of a raspberry and vanilla herbal refreshment, my tongue lies like a cold lizard before the early morning sunbake cranks the blood flow up a notch.
But I persist. It’s good for me. I trained my palate to ignore the protests coming from my lizard tongue.
Until last night. Herbal tea is a little like major surgery. It’s fine as long as you don’t have to see it yourself.
At a restaurant last night in the Nation’s Capital, I was presented with the unfortunately macerated remains of what must have once been a living, photosynthesising camomile plant with big, wet buds of yellow wattle-esque pollen.
I like my camomile in a tea bag where I don’t have to see it and it doesn’t actually taste of camomile. The real deal was a cloying assault on my throat and felt like I had taken out my epiglottis and ordered it to kiss every flower in the neighbouring florist.
So the long and the short is, the tea bag is the herbal refreshment of the future. Sometimes the real deal is not all it’s cracked up to be.
Signed
Grumpy Herbalist
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