Now, I've got a little confession to make. Last week we had a tea-tastrophe! Jimmy B and I were playing cricket in the backyard. He flew down the yard, dodged the poopy piles from the dog, flicked his arm over like a nuclear-powered helicopter, and sent the ball down the pitch faster than a sleep deprived 5-year-old on a sugar rush.

     I hit the ball so hard that I gave it a concussion. It broke the speed of light twice over, flew in through the window, and transformed Mum's favorite teapot, the one shaped like a camel, into a $700 pile of shrapnel. This was ten times worse than the undies and way worse than the peas.

     Jimmy B was over the back fence in 3 seconds, and I just stood there with my mouth open, trying my best to transform into an antique camel teapot. (Funnily enough, it didn't work). Jimmy B poked his head over the fence and flashed me his best been nice knowing you, but you're dead when your mum gets home sort of look.

     It was the same look he gave me when Dad figured out I'd used his toothbrush to clean the hard-to-reach bits in the henhouse. I still say it was Dad's fault. "Get the thing clean, Marty — don't care how you do it." Parents, what can you do with 'em?

     So we're standing in the kitchen with a pile of ex-camel in my hands, proof that I won't make it to my 11th birthday, and I shrug. "Dunno. It's quite pretty, really." Jimmy B gives me another look, and I shrug. "I know, right? Mum's gonna turn me into dust with flames from her eyeballs.

     We spend the next thirty minutes trying to piece it back together like a 3d jigsaw. Except, imagine that the instructions are in sixteen languages and half the pages are torn out. By now, the camel that had one hump and four long legs is a sort of half walrus/centipede mutant with three humps and a seriously bad hair day.

     Hopeless! I check my piggy bank. $37 and 45c. Slightly shy of the $700 I'd need for a new one. I toss up packing my bags and making a run for Afghanistan, but I reckon Mum could hunt me down anywhere this side of Uranus. But then Jimmy B has a brainwave. "Homemade Marty. My Mum goes crazy over anything arts and crafts. Sticks it all up on the fridge and swears anything I make is priceless." Of course. Homemade by me? What more could Mum want? And just like that, my masterpiece, no, my crafterpiece, begins to take shape.

     I snavel the super glue from the top cupboard along with the crystal vase Dad bought Mum for their first wedding anniversary, and Jimmy B and I stick chunks of exploded camel all over the glass. Well, at least I do. The only thing that Jimmy B manages to stick is his thumbs to the side of his face. (He says it happens all the time. Last time, his mum had to take him to the hospital because he managed to stick a finger up each nostril). We stand back and stare at our one-of-a-kind creation. "Solid four stars, Jimmy B!" Jimmy B puts his head on one side and sticks out his tongue like he does when he's doing his best thinking. Not bad not bad, but it needs something else.

     It's then that I have my own brain wave. Get 'em all the time. Challenge is convincing everyone else that they're as good as I know they are. "Mum loves tea more than anything. Let's make her own batch of tea leaves!" Jimmy B reckons it's the best idea he's heard all day. We get to work.

     I grab Mum's top 5 go-to tea leaves and tip them in a bowl: One box of peppermint, a box of Romantic Rose, half a tub of Darwin Sunrise, two shakes of Bushman's, and a caterer's box of Melbourne Breakfast. (Funny names these teas).

     Mum never knows which one to pick; now, she doesn't have to choose! Genius, right? Now, any other son would stop there. Mum's got a one-of-a-kind art piece and a world-class tea leaf mix. What more could she want? But I care more about my darling Mummsy than the average kid, so it's time to step it up.

     Mum said that tea can be just about anything. Flowers, leaves, spices. "Son, if you can brew it with some water at 86 degrees, it can be tea." Anything hey?

     I open the fridge and inspiration strikes. I grate in some carrots, sprinkle in a handful of breadcrumbs, and glurp in a good heaped tablespoon of mustard. The tea leaves are looking a good whack more colourful, and Jimmy B's Mum reckons you can't cook anything half-decent without mustard and carrot anyhow.

     We've got half an hour until Mum gets home — time to add some more ingredients. We split up. I raid the cupboard, and Jimmy B heads to the bathroom.

     In goes a bag of chili seeds, some self-raising flour, and half a dozen stale Anzac biscuits that get crumbled into the brew. Jimmy B comes back with talcum powder (For the scent), the dried-up crusty bits that grow at the end of the toothpaste, and the green moldy sludge from around the edge of the shower base. Still needs a bit of class, so I yeet in some of the peas (The leftover mushy ones from the sock draw), I give the blender a good blast for 30 seconds on max speed.

     I tear off the lid, and the aroma EXPLODES in my nostrils. What a whiff! What a smell! What a stench! Jimmy B passes out for 30 seconds, and I help myself to a couple of spoons of ice cream. (You got to keep your strength up!!)

     Mum likes her tea strong, but it's still missing something. I take a whiff, risk another, and then it hits me. I know EXACTLY what it needs. I nab my secret ingredient, chop it up, and dump it in. A final whizz in the blender, and it's done BEAU-TIFUL! I don't know what Mum's going to think, but I give it a solid 13 out of 10.

     Anyway, Mum finally gets home and spots the missing camel almost before she opens the door. And boy is… she… mad! Her hair stands on end, her cheeks turn a strange shade of purple, and an enormous alien vein pops out of the side of her neck! If it gets any bigger, it's going to need its own birth certificate.

     And that's before she finds the tea boxes. When Mum finds them empty, she gives me her best if it wasn't illegal, I'd chop you into little pieces, stuff you inside these boxes, and put you out with the garbage sort of look. You know Mum's mad when she doesn't say anything. Like nothing, for three… whole… days. She spends a whole lot of time staring at my beautiful mosaic vase. From time to time, she turns to me, shakes her head, and just walks away. I can't decide if she wants to throw it at the nearest wall or if she actually loves it. I reckon she loves it. Jimmy B's right. All Mums love arts and crafts!

     I try making her a cup of my special brew, but she isn't that keen to try it out - no idea why… It smells next level terrible, which seems to be how good tea smells anyway.

     Things go back to normal after about a week. I empty out my piggy bank and buy Mum 60 teapots from the local opp shop. At 50c each, they are a bargain. Mum actually cracks a smile. She's drinking more tea than ever, so I figure we're okay.

     As for me, I actually decide that tea isn't too bad. Still needs a dump truck full of sugar but I can see myself doing a cup or two. I'm obviously growing up.

     Before I go, yesterday I had a major win. I entered my tea creation in the 33rd Green Hills Country Fair home-made cooking competition… and I won! Nanna wasn't too happy that I beat out her triple-whipped, triple-sifted sponge cake, but the judges said it was the most uniquely flavored tea they'd ever tasted! Even Mum had a cup and actually went back for a second.

     Everyone pressed me for the ingredient list, but Jimmy B and I told them that tea chefs never reveal their secrets. Well. almost. I got to make a big speech and told everyone that we'd be selling our tea out the front of 45b South Lexington Avenue starting first thing tomorrow morning. Mum looked so proud.

     "What's the name of your special brew, Marty?"

     I can't keep it a secret anymore. "I've named it after our secret ingredient. The name of our brew… is toenail tea."