Downtown Abbey and Star Trek: A comparison of methods for obtaining aqueous extracts of Camellia sinensis

It was a gray day in Philadelphia, the fog never quite lifted, making the view from my study window look like a black and white photograph. Layer upon layer of trees stripped bare by winter fading into the mists. I was writing, working on an essay due later this week, and when the middle of the afternoon rolled around, I wanted a cup of tea.

As I made up a tray in the kitchen, warming the pot, and filling the sugar bowl, I imagined what it might be like to live at Downton Abbey. I would ring the bell and tell Carson that I'd like tea. It would arrive steaming hot on a silver tray, irregular lumps of sugar piled in a bowl, lemon slices fanned out on a tray. Carson would slide the tray onto the table next to the desk and quietly pour me a cup before easing out the door.

Or perhaps I have a post on the USS Enterprise. I could say to the air, "Tea. Assam. Hot, with sugar and lemon." A sleek white mug would shiver into being in the replicator slot in the wall next to my desk, steam curling above its surface. A discrete chime reminds me to grab it before it gets cold.

Instead, I put the tea pot on the tray and carefully carry it up to my study, where I pour a cup and sip strength from its steamy caffeinated contents. I'm Daisy, Carson and the Dowager Countess, all rolled into one.  But the tray is silver (for which I paid $1 at the thrift shop, #lifeonthemainline)...

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I once stayed in a house that had "staff" while traveling with my parents.  (My father was on business and I was being a companion to my mother.  The company he was visiting put us up there.) After a rather formal dinner, I was asked if I wanted coffee or tea on my morning tray.  "Tea, please."  The next morning, while I was in the shower, a tray appeared with a pot of tea.  Hot.  This, is my view, was the height of luxury.