Put the kettle on

“Put the kettle on / It is the British answer / to Armageddon.” — John Agard

Stressed about midterms? Put the kettle on. Going through a breakup? Put the kettle on. The sirens have started to blare and global thermonuclear war is imminent? Put the kettle on.

In my sleepy English village where there are more sheep than people, a milky brew heals all. It's not for just problems — you can have tea for anything. Strictly is on the telly? Put the kettle on. It's 2 p.m. and you managed to find a lovely Victoria Sponge at Tesco? Put the kettle on.

I remember the first time I learnt to make tea. During the pandemic, I was helping out in the village charity shop. In the shop, you can't not like tea; on day one, you're added to the 'tea chart' — an authoritative spreadsheet worthy of an international economics student. Every variable is recorded: tea type, milk, sugar, steeping time. There was even a specific mug for each volunteer (don't ever touch Vera's mug).

Clearly, there was no escape. I added my details to the tea chart (English breakfast, milk, no sugar, four-minute steep, if you’re interested) and learnt the art of tea-making from my fifteen honorary grandmas. I spent three years at the charity shop, and still visit every holiday. Each time — whether it's Debbie, Dee, Sue 1, Sue 2 or someone else — they have a cup of tea waiting for me, made exactly the way I like it.

At 15 I'd also started boarding school, and was glad to have learnt the joy of tea. Whenever the sloppy breakfast porridge was particularly tasteless, or the 2 a.m. fire alarms were more jarring than usual, I'd find refuge in the gentle steam of an earl grey. Trust fund nepo babies getting on my nerves? Put the kettle on. Rats in the walls and floodwater on the floors? Put the kettle on. One mug at a time, I got through boarding school.

Next was UBC. I arrived on August 28 at 1 a.m. having never visited Vancouver before. I missed all the first-day events (I’m still owed a t-shirt) and my first act was to accidentally lock myself out of my room. As I walked shirtless and barefoot to Totem Park’s front desk, I questioned, am I ready for this? My mum’s wisdom came back to me: “Just put the kettle on, [you muppet].”

I wish I continued to follow her advice. Instead, my first few months at UBC were a Dionysian haze of white claws, the magic forest and sweaty fraternity basements. I had stopped drinking tea, and it showed: I was manic and angsty and I talked to everyone but had a real conversation with no one.

Only in November did I return to tea. Boiling the kettle, pouring the water, letting the tea bags steep — the routine calmed me and I started to actually converse with people. I traded white claws for chais, the magic forest for Wreck sunsets, and sweaty fraternity basements for pretty much anywhere else on the planet. If you’re in first year and Smirnoff Ice isn’t quite giving you the fulfilment you crave… put the kettle on.

Second year posed its own challenges. I worked full-time at Kits’ Rain or Shine, running entirely on a diet of No Frills pesto pasta and malted milk chocolate honeycomb. I should not have survived, and yet — barring self-induced lactose intolerance — I did.

Tea helped me make friends with my coworkers, and calmed me down after work. It could be the worst shift, with out-the-door-lines and waffle burns all over my hands, but I knew eventually I’d be able to go back home, grab my sweater and put the kettle on.

First or second year, the story is the same: tea calms me down and helps me connect with people. I’ve formed my closest friendships over tea, I’ve started relationships over tea, I’ve reconnected with my family over tea. Hell, I’ve even been propositioned for marriage and a polyamorous situationship over tea (I probably wouldn’t recommend these last two). My mugs are worn and cracked, and that makes me happy.

I’m now in third year and on exchange at the National University of Singapore. I have a cute gecko roommate and didn’t lock myself out this time, but I’ve left friends and family behind, and some days are hard. What do I do when the night is low and the silence is heavy? I put the kettle on. I cradle my chipped mug, and the steam rises and begins to dance.