By Felice Prager
Strange how a teapot can represent at the same time the comforts of solitude and the pleasures of company.
~Author Unknown
My induction into the world of tea began with a gift from my mother -- a beautiful cobalt blue tea set she had purchased on a trip to Japan. The tea set came in a satin-lined white leather box. The cups, saucers, and teapot were delicately hand-painted in their rich cobalt blue color with a gold crane and a thin gold line around each rim. I was never quite sure why she purchased the set because the extent of her ownership was transporting it back to the United States, going through customs with it, and then storing it on a shelf in her closet. It had never been used.
Strange how a teapot can represent at the same time the comforts of solitude and the pleasures of company.
~Author Unknown
My induction into the world of tea began with a gift from my mother -- a beautiful cobalt blue tea set she had purchased on a trip to Japan. The tea set came in a satin-lined white leather box. The cups, saucers, and teapot were delicately hand-painted in their rich cobalt blue color with a gold crane and a thin gold line around each rim. I was never quite sure why she purchased the set because the extent of her ownership was transporting it back to the United States, going through customs with it, and then storing it on a shelf in her closet. It had never been used.
Her trip to Japan was one that would have excited most people, but my mother was newly widowed and her enthusiasm for life had vanished with the death of my father. She was in her mid-forties at the time, and, though she never said it aloud, it was evident that she felt cheated. She made reservations for the trip, alone, with much apprehension. "Dad left you enough money to travel. Go somewhere, Mom. Meet some new people. Do something nice for yourself. Have some fun. Do something exciting." She did not want to go, but she did. With the death of my dad, the life in my mom slowly seeped out of her. Traveling alone in a foreign country made her life even more overwhelming. The most enthusiasm she could muster was over the cobalt blue tea set she had purchased. "It's so beautiful," I said.
"I thought so, too," she said. "It reminded me of when you were a little girl and used to have tea parties. Remember?"
I really did not remember, but I nodded my head anyway. I remembered playing with my cousin's toy pickup truck and his fire engine, but I did not remember tea parties.
"It'll be yours someday," my mother said. "You can have it now if you want."
"Mom, you should enjoy it now. It's so pretty. Put it out somewhere so it can be seen. Make tea! Put it in your breakfront. Show it off!"
Instead, the tea set sat in its box on a shelf in her closet for twenty-five years.
Eventually, I moved with my family across the country. My mother visited often when my children were young, less often as they grew to have their own lives and schedules. On one of her many trips, she brought the cobalt blue tea set.
"It matches your home so much better than it does mine," she said. She was right. "I want you to have it."
While my mother was there, I left the set out, in its box, with the lid open. I wasn't sure where to put it, and with five cats and two sons, I wanted to keep it where it wouldn't be broken. I showed it to everyone who came into my home. Eventually, when my mom left, I closed the case and put it in my cabinet to keep it safe. I was truly afraid to use it. But I loved it nonetheless. I had always been particularly fond of cobalt blue china and knew it was hard to find, especially pieces that lovely. I also knew how difficult the trip to Japan had been for my mother, and though I never told her this, I am not sure I would have attempted that trip by myself had I been in a similar situation.
Maybe it's part of being an adult, but I wanted to show my mom how much I appreciated the gift that she had transported from Japan to her home and then, many years later, to mine. I purchased several types of tea and a special pot for brewing the tea. My plan was to make a delicious tea and to serve it to my mom when she visited the next time. We would have a tea party I really remembered instead of pretending to remember the ones from my childhood. I was sure my mother would enjoy the effort and appreciate the sentiment.
Not being a tea drinker, this required much self-education and experimentation. Before receiving the cobalt blue tea set, I thought "tea" was a teabag dunked in boiled water with a lot of sugar and honey in it, sitting on my night table when I was sick. Tea was a weak watery drink served to all patrons at the local Chinese restaurants. Tea was not my beverage of choice.
I experimented with many flavored teas. Though I had been accused of being addicted to diet soda and coffee before this, I suddenly preferred tea to all other drinks. The variety of flavors made it an adventure. There were so many choices. Yet, each time I brewed a pot of tea, I could not bring myself to pour the tea into the cobalt blue cups. I was saving their inauguration for my mother's next visit.
Unfortunately, that never happened. My mother grew too sick to travel and eventually succumbed to heart disease.
I took the tea set down several times after her death and stared at it. Everyone mourns in different ways. I stared at the beautiful tea set and cried. What was it about the tea set? Was it the memory of a tea party my mother had that I could not remember? Was it the effort I put behind my master plan that I could never fulfill? Perhaps it was the one tie my mother wanted to have with me -- one that she felt was missing in her life as I grew up and away from her. With my children growing up and moving away, I was beginning to feel this emptiness as well, a generation later, and I knew somehow the tea set was our bond, even if neither of us could put it into words.
On the day she would have been eighty years old, I brewed a pot of strawberry-kiwi tea, the tea I felt would most likely be served at a little girl's tea party -- sweet and delicious. I poured the tea into two of the beautiful cobalt cups. I slowly sipped mine, and then I slowly sipped from the cup I had poured for my mom. I rinsed both cups, dried them, and put them back into the satin-lined box.
"I thought so, too," she said. "It reminded me of when you were a little girl and used to have tea parties. Remember?"
I really did not remember, but I nodded my head anyway. I remembered playing with my cousin's toy pickup truck and his fire engine, but I did not remember tea parties.
"It'll be yours someday," my mother said. "You can have it now if you want."
"Mom, you should enjoy it now. It's so pretty. Put it out somewhere so it can be seen. Make tea! Put it in your breakfront. Show it off!"
Instead, the tea set sat in its box on a shelf in her closet for twenty-five years.
Eventually, I moved with my family across the country. My mother visited often when my children were young, less often as they grew to have their own lives and schedules. On one of her many trips, she brought the cobalt blue tea set.
"It matches your home so much better than it does mine," she said. She was right. "I want you to have it."
While my mother was there, I left the set out, in its box, with the lid open. I wasn't sure where to put it, and with five cats and two sons, I wanted to keep it where it wouldn't be broken. I showed it to everyone who came into my home. Eventually, when my mom left, I closed the case and put it in my cabinet to keep it safe. I was truly afraid to use it. But I loved it nonetheless. I had always been particularly fond of cobalt blue china and knew it was hard to find, especially pieces that lovely. I also knew how difficult the trip to Japan had been for my mother, and though I never told her this, I am not sure I would have attempted that trip by myself had I been in a similar situation.
Maybe it's part of being an adult, but I wanted to show my mom how much I appreciated the gift that she had transported from Japan to her home and then, many years later, to mine. I purchased several types of tea and a special pot for brewing the tea. My plan was to make a delicious tea and to serve it to my mom when she visited the next time. We would have a tea party I really remembered instead of pretending to remember the ones from my childhood. I was sure my mother would enjoy the effort and appreciate the sentiment.
Not being a tea drinker, this required much self-education and experimentation. Before receiving the cobalt blue tea set, I thought "tea" was a teabag dunked in boiled water with a lot of sugar and honey in it, sitting on my night table when I was sick. Tea was a weak watery drink served to all patrons at the local Chinese restaurants. Tea was not my beverage of choice.
I experimented with many flavored teas. Though I had been accused of being addicted to diet soda and coffee before this, I suddenly preferred tea to all other drinks. The variety of flavors made it an adventure. There were so many choices. Yet, each time I brewed a pot of tea, I could not bring myself to pour the tea into the cobalt blue cups. I was saving their inauguration for my mother's next visit.
Unfortunately, that never happened. My mother grew too sick to travel and eventually succumbed to heart disease.
I took the tea set down several times after her death and stared at it. Everyone mourns in different ways. I stared at the beautiful tea set and cried. What was it about the tea set? Was it the memory of a tea party my mother had that I could not remember? Was it the effort I put behind my master plan that I could never fulfill? Perhaps it was the one tie my mother wanted to have with me -- one that she felt was missing in her life as I grew up and away from her. With my children growing up and moving away, I was beginning to feel this emptiness as well, a generation later, and I knew somehow the tea set was our bond, even if neither of us could put it into words.
On the day she would have been eighty years old, I brewed a pot of strawberry-kiwi tea, the tea I felt would most likely be served at a little girl's tea party -- sweet and delicious. I poured the tea into two of the beautiful cobalt cups. I slowly sipped mine, and then I slowly sipped from the cup I had poured for my mom. I rinsed both cups, dried them, and put them back into the satin-lined box.
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