EXACTLY

I made a cup of tea, because of course I did, that’s the answer, isn’t it? To heartbreak, fatigue, nuclear winter. The kettle screams its little song of hope, and we pour it into porcelain like it’s some ancient ritual of national resurrection. But it never fixes anything, not really. It just gives your hands something to do while the world outside falls apart like a cassette player from Temu.

The subject of tea, specifically, whether the milk arrives at the party first or fashionably late, is one that has divided households more bitterly than Brexit or any other civil war we lost (see what I did there? – pro Euro, pro Richard III, anyway). It seems absurd, on the face of it, to wage war over sequence. And yet here we are, teacups in hand, brandishing opinions as if we’d trained in duel etiquette under Miss Marple herself. To the outsider, it may seem a question of mere personal taste, but to those of us who live within the British Isles, or their emotional jurisdiction, it is a matter of identity, and decorum.

Historically, it was not out of taste or class snobbery but from the sheer terror of a cracked teacup that milk was first poured in before tea. The porcelain of yesteryear, much like the self-esteem of the average British person, was delicate and prone to shattering when confronted with anything hot or earnest. Adding milk first mitigated this thermal catastrophe, thus saving many an aristocrat from the shame of a dribbling teacup and a soggy cravat.

But then came the snobs. Once the upper crust realised that their imported Chinese porcelain could withstand the fires of Mordor, they began pouring tea first, observing the milk as one might observe a suspect through a monocle. Suddenly, milk-first became the calling card of the plebeian masses. Like eating pizza, it wasn’t wrong per se, just… uncivilised. By the Victorian era, etiquette manuals advised milk be added after, preferably while wearing lace gloves and the expression of someone who has never once pooped.

Then came science, galloping in on a teabag. Studies showed that milk poured into pre-brewed tea allowed for better infusion, richer aroma, and the sort of robust flavour that makes your upper lip quiver with restrained colonialism. Meanwhile, ISO 3103 – the international standard for brewing tea (yes, it exists, and yes, someone was paid for that), said that milk should be added first when testing teas scientifically.

Of course, this didn’t go down well, pouring milk first in a mug before the teabag has danced, to some, was tantamount to blasphemy. The water cools, the tea sulks, and you’re left with a brew that tastes like someone whispered “Earl Grey” into a cup of milk. And yet, for potty teapot users, where tea is brewed before meeting its milky fate, the order becomes a matter of texture. Milk-first produces a smoother, silkier mouthfeel, while milk-last lets you play paint-by-numbers with your beverage’s shade.

So, which is right? Neither, or both. Like religion or Marmite, the choice is really just a mirror for your soul. Milk-first may whisper of tradition and broken cups, milk-last, of refinement and theatrical flourish. I personally put the milk in first simply because I get bored waiting for the kettle to boil. But in the end, your tea does not care. It will taste how it tastes, judged only by your tongue and perhaps your mother-in-law. Choose what you will. Just never, never, microwave it.

P.S. if you are curious as to why this post is called “Exactly”, it is the response to “Accrington Stanley, who are they?” from the milk advert: “It’s what Ian Rush drinks”.- And milk of course, is the topic of this post. And if you’re too young to remember the advert, then, I don’t know. I haven’t the energy to process the idea that there are people out there below the age of 40. What a truly horrific idea…

:: REFERENCES ::

• ISO 3103 – The International Standard for Tea Brewing