First thing that I do every morning when I walk into the kitchen is fill and turn on the kettle (mine’s bright-red and whistle-y). Actually, ‘walk through the kitchen, turn on the kettle’ is now an instinct. Sometimes I’ll be pottering around the house, then suddenly hear a long whistle in the kitchen because I had turned the kettle on without realizing it. (Uh, sorry, fire safety)
I blame Russia for this (not the hazardous absentmindedness, but the prodigious tea drinking).
According to a 2005 study cited on Wiki (what, it’s totally a legit source), 82% of Russians consume tea daily. I think they’re low-balling it. Any time we went to a Russian’s house, either here or back in the Motherland, tea was always offered, insisted on, and pretty much expected. In the morning, you drink tea. If a friend comes over to chat, you drink tea. After every meal, especially the large, celebratory affairs that would last a few hours, you drink tea.
When my dad and I go cross-country skiing (or hiking, or skating, or anywhere outdoorsy for a prolonged period of time), he doesn’t leave the house without a thermos full of strong, sweet tea.
My favourite was the tea on Russian trains, because it was usually served in glass mugs in подстаканники (podstakanniki, meaning “thing under the glass”, elaborate metal holders). Every summer we’d go visit our relatives in Ukraine, which was a two-day train ride, and what I looked forward the most to was drinking tea from those glass mugs, delivered to you by the train conductor (complimentary!). There’s just something so sophisticated yet rustic about sitting in your rocking compartment, watching the birches swish past the window to the clicketty-clack-clicketty-clack of the wheels, all while drinking tea out of a glass in an ornate metal holder.
The main thing that is very different from North America is the tea brewing process itself. This is one of those habits that I took for universal until my friends in Canada responded with a “what in the world are you doing to our tea, woman” when I first tried to make them a pot.
Russians use a ‘two-step’ brewing process. A lot of loose tea or several teabags are put into a teapot, and are steeped in boiling water for a long while – about ten minutes. This produces a very strong tea concentrate, called заварка (zavarka). Заварка is what makes tea Russian… the origin of the tea leaves doesn’t really matter, nor what utensils are used in the tea-making process. If you make заварка, you’re basically making Russian tea.
Заварка is then served to the table along with a pot of boiling water. Each person pours some of the concentrate into their cup, then dilutes it with the water (that way everyone can make their tea as strong or weak as they want).
Note to the wise: don’t drink заварка on its own. Apparently, it can cause intense heartbeat, hallucinations, headaches and restlessness (once again, thanks Wiki). A variant of it, called чифирь (chifir’) is used in Russian prisons as a substitute to drugs and alcohol. Drink enough of very strong заварка and you could be in for a heart attack… DEATH BY TEA.
Admittedly, Russian tea drinking has shout-outs to give to various cultures. Tea drinking came about thanks to China (thanks, China!). The Chinese ambassador to Moscow made a gift of several chests of tea to Tsar Aleksey Mikhaylovich in the mid-1600s. During this period, Russia was attempting to establish trade with China and tea soon became one of the most desired imports. The samovar and the glass-holders were inspired by similar Turkish implements (thanks, Turkey!).
Oh, and, Russian language note! Tea in Russian is чай (chai). So, chai tea sounds like “tea tea” to me. I wonder if we got the word chai courtesy of India? Nevermind, according to the Etymology of tea, it’s thanks to the Chinese (again).
this is russian 