It was a hot summer at the penitentiary. In Walla Walla, it gets nuclear—like, in the triple digits! This summer seemed especially hot. It reminded me of growing up in Orland, California, where triple digits in the summer were the norm.
Sometimes on days like that, my stepmom, in a rare fit of senility, would make a two-gallon jug of sweetened sun tea. It was delicious, especially on a hot day, served in frosted anodized metal cups. If you grew up in the ’70s, you know the ones. Well, on this hot day, I thought I’d make Mike, my cellie, and myself a jug of sun tea just like my stepmom used to make.
I boiled water, put it in my 2.75-quart pitcher, added tea bags, and a whole box of sugar cubes. I pretended like I put it in a window—windows at Walls were usually frosted, covered in soot and grime from decades of neglect, and located 20 feet from the cell—so I placed the pitcher on the floor at the front of the cell, where the sun would, hypothetically, make the tea taste better.
It was early morning when I made the tea, thinking it would be ready by the time noon yard ended. After lunch, I got some ice, so when I returned from yard, hot and exhausted, I’d put it in our cups, fish out the tea bags from the pitcher, and pour Mike and me a refreshing cup of sun tea.
And that’s what I did.
I went to yard, played handball for two and a half hours, and came back to the cell, anticipating the ice-cold, refreshing sun tea. I put ice in our tumblers, fished the tea bags out, and poured the sweet concoction. I handed Mike his cup, picked up mine, and guzzled down half of it before my taste buds and stomach told me there was something terribly wrong with the tea!
I looked up at Mike while trying not to spew the tea I’d drunk all over the cell. He had a look on his face like I’d tried to assault him—his cup hung in the air just below his lips as he decided what to do with the tea already in his mouth. He, being smarter than me, had taken a sip; I, however, guzzled, hot from yard, not suspecting I had made poison!
Mike spit his out in the toilet, an ever-present receptacle in the cell, and said, “What the fuck!?” Confused, or just stupid, I tried another sip, experimentally this time. Yep, it was bad. It tasted like iron, aspirin, and too much sugar. It was cloyingly bitter—a taste I still remember today.
You see, I’d never made tea before. Sure, a cup here and there, but never a pitcher of it. When I do drink it, I like my tea with lots of sugar, so if a cup gets two spoons, then a pitcher should get a box, right? And with that flawed logic firmly in place, I scaled up the tea bags too! If a cup gets two, then my container should need twenty, or two-thirds of the box! I’d put 20-30 bags in! Oh my glob, not only was I wrong, I’d made a caffeine overdose.
Mike, who was laughing at me with tears in his eyes as I explained how I made it, was lucky—he’d only tasted it. I, on the other hand, thanks to a greedy stomach too stubborn to give up the tea, drank down at least two cups of it. Within moments, I was sweating and hyperactive with the urge to barf. This condition lasted for hours! It was horrible. I tried to get the taste out of my mouth, but nothing worked, and I was afraid of trying coffee—the last thing I needed was more caffeine.
I can’t drink tea even now, almost 15 years later. If it’s pekoe or green tea, it strongly reminds me of that taste, and I feel nauseous. So, my friends, if you think you can do something just because your mom did it, think again. She used to make wedding cakes too—would you like me to make one for you?