Every morning for as long as I can remember, my father’s breakfast has consisted of a pot of black tea and a slice of toast. My mother would put a bag of Typhoo into the pot first thing after stumbling out of bed. Then, after putting the kettle on, her sleep-addled brain would decide she’d forgotten to put a teabag in the pot and she’d go add a second one; then, after packing his lunch, she’d end up adding another one, and a fourth right before pouring the boiling water into the pot. Needless to say, I grew up drinking this brewed very strong. (These days, my father makes his own tea and packs his own lunch, and my mother sleeps in. Quite right, too.)
When I was in high school and stumbling toward my 6:00AM choir practice, I’d pour this into a travel mug and absent-mindedly dump about half the sugar bowl in with it. These days, I try to be better about limiting my sugar to a more reasonable half-spoonful, but whenever I’ve had an absolutely terrible week, I brew up an extra strong pot of Typhoo and go mad with the sugar. Maybe it doesn’t reflect the most refined palette, but it tastes like home.
