Rain or shine, subzero or sweltering, around 2:00 p.m. each weekday some internal alarm prompts me from my chair toward the kitchen. Although this is a short migration, it involves a radical shift in habitat. My office is tucked on the north side of the house and flanked by an Entish pin oak tree. Those with an aversion to low light might find the room too solemn, but I enjoy its cool, shady attitude. It feels as though I have my own little bower among the branches of the house. I work here for hours at a stretch, cocooned in a silence that is conducive to concentration but not oppressive. There’s a palpable shift in my awareness when I enter the kitchen, which is flooded with light throughout the day and in all seasons. Wide windows on its east and west walls, and exposure from the south through an adjoining mudroom, make the kitchen open and lively. This is the real heart of our home. Even a quick infusion of its light, color, and space gives me just the dose of energy I need to remain focused through the afternoon. A cup of tea doesn’t hurt, either.

Teatime is not a fancy affair. I don’t prepare food, and never even sit down. But there is a ritual associated with this break. I take down two mugs from the cabinet. One is chosen randomly, though it can’t be too large. The other is my favorite mug, made of thick, cream-colored ceramic with a handle that looks like a twisted twig. Across its surface are painted two of the birds that commonly appear in our yard: the Baltimore oriole and the blue jay. The style of painting looks somehow old-fashioned, like it belongs in a dusty field guide you might find tucked away in your grandparents’ library. I choose a bag of good black tea to go in the first mug. Something fruity or spicy goes in mine—but no caffeine allowed. Finally I fill the burnished metal teakettle and place it on the burner. Now begins my favorite part of the routine. Until the kettle sings I have a few free moments, with nothing more important to do than watch.