The finest cup of tea I ever tasted was made for me by Mrs.
Taylor. Tiny and silver-haired when I was born, to my eyes she aged not a day
until her last illness twenty-eight years later. She lived in Winchester, near
the cathedral immortalized in song by the New Vaudeville Band, and it was there
that I arrived by train to visit her one drear afternoon in October,
Preparation for The Taking Of The Tea (I soon realized that
tea prepared with such painstaking attention to detail demanded a formal title)
began in her clean but comfortably lived-in kitchen. (I should mention that Mrs.
Taylor was the only person I knew whose house never needed cleaning—at least I
presumed it didn’t, since it was never dirty nor did I ever once see her with a
dust rag in hand.) On the tea tray went a cloth of white linen with an
exquisite cutwork embroidery design, and two matching napkins. The cloth was
almost obscured by two teacups of finest bone china in a delicate floral pattern,
a matching milk jug, a bowl to catch the drips from the tea strainer, a teapot
complete with elegant cozy, and a thermal jug whose function was as yet
shrouded in mystery.
In the kitchen, I witnessed Mrs. Taylor warming the pot,
then adding a quantity of tea leaves so surprisingly large that I wondered fleetingly
whether she had been taking lessons from the keepers at Bristol Zoo. I was
greatly relieved when, in the comfort of the sitting room, our chairs on either
side of the fireplace and the tray on the small table between us, it turned out
that the thermos flask was full of just-below-boiling-point water that she used
to dilute the extraordinarily strong output of the teapot. There was something
almost mesmerizing about watching her pour, first the milk, then the incredibly
strong tea, then the very hot water, until the cup was the exact taste I
preferred. Oh, I'm forgetting the sugar! Mrs. Taylor was well aware I did not
take sugar, and she certainly knew that neither did she, but there was a bowl of
sugar lumps, complete with tongs, to spare me the embarrassment of having to
ask, "just in case" I had changed my mind.
Gradually I became aware that I was witnessing a ceremony
from a bygone era. The goal was not, as is the norm today, the speedy production
of a large quantity of tea to be slurped from hefty ceramic mugs, but rather the
making of individual, six ounce cups of tea, each one perfectly tailored to its intended
drinker.
There didn't seem to be quite enough air in the room. At
least, as I sat up ramrod straight, frantically trying to avoid disappointing her
expectations of a tea guest, I found it hard to breathe; in retrospect, I can relate to the
female actors of Downton Abbey who described how restrictive their crushingly
tight corsets were. It’s hard to misbehave when you can scarcely breathe!
The funny thing, looking back, is that it was all about love,
though the word was never spoken. It was
love that lay behind Mrs. Taylor’s extraordinary attention to detail in giving
me a tea experience that remains vivid thirty-five years later; it was love
that made me so desperately eager to please her in return. I imagine she fed me
sandwiches and delectable little tea cakes, but I honestly don’t remember.
The love was in the teapot, and that’s what I recall.
Lovely! I think I'll make a cuppa right now!
ReplyDeleteNothing could give me greater pleasure than to inspire a fellow tea drinker!
ReplyDeleteMy late MiL (RIP October @94) had not the slightest clue on what constitutes a good cuppa - after a few abortive attempts on her part I switched to dare I mention "instant" coffee whenever under her roof unless of course I made the tea. Ruth could not distinguish between watery and milky, weak or sternly strong and I'm sure after seeing me toss the stuff out to start again she would panic in her attempts to get it right and panic leads to confusion hence my switch to coffee.
ReplyDeleteDesperate times call for desperate measures, Stephen, and the enormity of your situation stands revealed by your having switched to (gasp) instant (double gasp) coffee. Alack, woe is me!!! I trust that the intervening 18ish years have brought some solace.
ReplyDelete