I haven’t reviewed this often, but that doesn’t mean I don’t love it. Perfection in a breakfast tea. Wheaty. Toasty. Smooth. Takes milk graciously but doesn’t need it.
This was a serendipity find at Tuesday Morning a while back—after falling in love with Mr. Shepherd, my husband kindly went back and bought the two remaining tins. I had a Sunday morning date with the last spoonfuls of Tin #2. Favorite hobnail mug. Steeped to perfection. Thirty unscheduled minutes before I had to get ready for church.
And then, Beelzebub and Son in the feline forms of Minnie and Tazo, decided to play tag. Minnie, a 20-pounder, jumped on the small side table holding the mug and drenched everything within a three-foot radius. Cleaned the rug. Threw away ruined magazines. Blotted soggy books. Scrubbed stained carpet. With order nearly restored, I lifted the small table, half the weight of the cat who caused the commotion and felt a sciatic nerve go snap.
And that is why I have been walking around hunched over like a gorilla all week.
Even so, I’m still more peeved about the loss of a perfect cuppa than I am about the injury. So glad there’s one tin left.