Savouring my morning, Second Flush Ruby Darjeeling Tea,

Nothing, I think, has given me greater pleasure than my end-of-life (I turned 76 three days ago) indulgence in Indian tea, in great immoderate (3-cup) mugfuls, once or twice a day--Unless it were to have shared it, as I have done, by having my tea purveyors in Bengal double my last order of this exquisite Ruby Darjeeling, and send half to me, and half to my old friend Margo in Wilkesboro, North Carolina.  She told me, when she called about a month ago, that a sentence of breast cancer had been passed upon her; I, of course, told her straightaway about the cancer-curing properties of THC, but we had not much time then to talk, and I sensed (and sense) the pursed-lip interference of traditionalist, Red State children and husband.  So I waited a week (lest I seem maniacally eager) before I had the tea sent her, and when she called yesterday to thank me for it, I said, of course, "Il n'y a pas de quoi, but remember that the virtue of  good tea is both to keep us in good health and to cure our ills." And, after an almost imperceptible pause, she said she would remember it.