I used to start my day with a cup of tea. Or four.

I liked it black and steeped until the astringent liquid would hit my tongue and jolt me into wakefulness.

I liked it hot in my hands before it was cool enough to drink.

I slopped it over the sides of my tea cup on the way down the driveway in the morning and figured the wet pants were a small price to pay.

I had extra cups on cold winter days and slow days and sad days and grumpy days. I had extra cups in celebration of warm mornings and happy occasions and book reading afternoons.

I always used to start my day with a cup of tea, or six.

But now… having become fairly intolerant of excessive amounts of caffeine, I start my day with a cup of Mud.

One cup.

Of mud.

MUD/WTR, as it is officially known, is lovely in a chocolaty dirt sort of way. I drink it with a bit of honey and milk. It’s warm and soothing and the bottom of the cup always contains an extra layer of gritty bitter sediment that if I close my eyes and squint as I knock the last bit back, I can almost pretend is akin to the tang of tea.

My morning mud is filled with mushrooms and turmeric and other things that are supposed to be great for me and most importantly just a smidgen of caffeine.

Nowadays tea gives me the attention span of a rabid squirrel with ADD if consumed in any amount that seems proper. Mud is like getting a warm hug in the morning and I’ve grown to love that hug (I’m big on hugs lately).

I used to start my day with a cup of tea or eight.

Now I have one cup of mud.