Making a cup of tea, I was reminded of my grandfather. My mother’s father. Sitting with him, I’m just a little kid, at the kitchen table at his house on Charles Mary Lane. After pouring the water, he’d let the tea steep. (As you do with tea, no revelation there.) Then just use his strong, worked fingers to squeeze the hot teabag out.
And for no conscious reason I’ve ever thought about, it just seems the most natural thing to do the same. My far weaker, less accomplished fingers don’t complain.