Our parents have a unique way of making tea. Their kettle is a permanent fixture on the back right hand burner of their stove. In the morning they boil the water with the tea bags in it resulting in a dark molasses coloured tea that is an elixir for the soul.

Our childhood is grounded in that kettle. We have listened to the comforting whispered conversations of our parents in early morning hours while they sipped those cups of tea.  There was always a tea bag or two to throw in if someone popped by for a visit. We learned about the people in our lives from overheard conversations while one of those cups steamed nearby.

In university, our conversations centered around pints in pubs. We made friendships, lost friendships, learned about ourselves and etched embarrassing and happy memories on our minds. We now share pints on the rare occasions we are together while our babies sleep to the sound of our hushed conversations.

In a world that presents to us the sad, the frustrating, and the angry on a silver platter; we display the happy, the joy, the love in gold gilded frames. We build our community over a simple cup of tea or perfectly poured pint. We find ways to mine out bits of happiness and inject it back into the world.

We extract the happy.