The Tannin Terrorist

Every morning, the same ritual. Kettle on. Teabags in. Hot water poured. A brief moment of contemplation before the sacrament of caffeine takes hold. But in this daily rite, a mystery has emerged. My cup remains pristine, while Hay's turns into a crime scene of tannin stains. A forensic investigation was clearly required.

Now, we both drink the same tea. Same water. Same cups. Same process. The only difference? Sugar. I take two teaspoons. My wife takes none. And therein lies the rub – or rather, the lack of one.

It turns out sugar isn’t just a sweetener. It’s also a bit of a cleaner, a silent defender against the creeping menace of tea tannins. These little polyphenolic troublemakers are responsible for both the rich flavour of tea and the dark, stubborn stains clinging to the inside of cups like a politician to a dodgy expense claim. But sugar, in its infinite wisdom, binds with these tannins, rendering them incapable of defacing my ceramic chalice. My wife’s unsweetened brew, however, is an open invitation for these scoundrels to set up camp.

Naturally, I informed her of my scientific breakthrough. Given that my Hay is a PhD biochemist, this was met not with admiration but with a lecture on molecular structures, solubility, and why my discovery was neither ground-breaking nor worthy of smugness. It was followed by a glare that suggested I’d be getting my tea served in a dog bowl if I pressed the point further. Because, of course, she refuses to add sugar. Health reasons. A desire to avoid empty calories. Some vague notion of tea being a noble, ascetic beverage that mustn’t be sullied. Meanwhile, her cup looks like it’s been used to mix creosote.

There are solutions, of course. A rinse with cold water before pouring tea. A good scrub with bicarbonate of soda. But really, isn’t the answer staring her in the face? Two teaspoons of sugar. A small price to pay for immaculate crockery and a smug sense of superiority.

But no. She insists on suffering for her principles. And so, each morning, I sip my tea from a cup as pure as the driven snow while she gazes into the abyss of her own making, where dark tannin stains lurk in judgment. Science has spoken, but habit and stubbornness will always win.

And so, the battle continues. One cup pristine. One cup stained. And one husband who knows better – but also knows when to keep his mouth shut.

To make matters worse, I regularly have to apply a spray of bleach to the cups to keep them from looking like archaeological relics. Nothing horrifies me more than giving a guest a tannin-stained cup. The very thought makes my skin crawl. I’d rather serve tea in my shoe than risk being judged as the sort of person who can’t manage basic hygiene.