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c y n o p e p  t e a
pastel
In many ways, both good and bad, it's still the 1980s at my parents' house. Thus, on a cupboard lazy Susan, among bomb shelter essentials like mustard powder, hoarded and bagged-up take-away condiment packets, evaporated soup, Knorr cubes, tinned tuna, 8,000 rubles ('just in case'), and peanut butter, is some lovely old West German tea. Because I'm the sort of chap that I am, I decided on a recent visit to brew up a special cup for you, my readers, and to capture the gay tea-time with my old West German camera. This is Cynopep Tea, pride of the BRD, home of those tea-mad Teutons.

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Cynopep is 'tea' only in that word's broad sense. In each bag is a blend of four herbs; my palate understood them as turnip ('hibiskus'), peppermint ('peppermint'), cider vinegar ('camomille'), and horse ('rosehip'). Add boiling water and you have a twenty-five-year-old, scalding, sterile, delicious piss. But it's fine, though. It's all just brilliant and fine. I would swallow my own tongue for erikkennedy.com, wouldn't I?

 
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