Clementine and Danny Save the World by Livia Blackburne EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
- Status: Available for Free Download
- Author: Livia Blackburne
- Language: English
- Genre:Romantic Comedy
- Format: PDF / EPUB
- Size: 6 MB
- Price: Free
I LIKE TO MATCH DIFFERENT VARIETIES OF TEA TO different
parts of my creative process.
Chrysanthemum is for brainstorming. For effervescent flights of fancy
and flowery, optimistic tendrils of thought. Green tea is early-morning
focus, for those times you wake up with an idea that won’t wait, and so you
pull on a sweater over your pajamas and type as fast as you can before the
inspiration leaves you. Oolong is for productive afternoons. You have your
idea, but your energy’s flagging, and you need that shot of mellow warmth
to pull you through. And Pu’er—rich, aged Pu’er—isn’t for working at all.
It’s for relaxing, sipping memories, and steeping in friendship.
Right now, it’s an oolong type of afternoon. I’m alone with my laptop in
a cozy café corner, sipping a piping-hot mug. These leaves are on their third
steep now, and their flavor has sweetened and become fruitier. Really, this
tea’s some of the best I’ve tasted, and I drink a lot of tea these days,
probably more than my parents need to know about. An occupational
hazard of tea blogging, I guess, but this stuff is supposed to be good for
you, right? Maybe forty-year-old me will thank eighteen-year-old me for all
the antioxidants I’m currently packing into my system.
Auntie Chen, the laobanniang, arranges this and that behind the counter.
She catches me watching and smiles.
“How’s the tea?” she asks in Cantonese-accented Mandarin.
“Hen hao!” I suppress a cringe at the sound of my voice. My accent is
bad enough to make a panda cry. As 1.5-generation immigrants who came
over in their early teens, my parents did their dutiful best to pass on their
mother tongue to me. But Chinese school was always so early on Saturday
mornings, and frankly, my parents’ English is so good that I simply didn’t
need to work that hard at my Chinese. So here I am now, an eighteen-yearold Chinese American whose Mandarin sounds like lines spoken by the
token white people who show up in old Chinese dramas. You know, the
suave but linguistically imperfect white guy who tries to steal the heroine
from her upstanding Chinese boyfriend.
I make up for my cultural inadequacy with a winning smile, and Auntie
Chen’s eyes crinkle in response. Better a customer with bad Chinese than
no customers at all, I guess. Sadly, the latter scenario isn’t all that unlikely
around here. I look around at the empty tables, the door with the bell that’s
rung only once since I came in. The only other person here is a college
student with muddy-blond hair and an Adam’s apple that bobs in time to the
indie rock coming out of his AirPods.
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