Tea traditions steep memories across generations

My experience with tea began when I was a little girl with a teddy bear, a set of miniature cups and saucers, a teapot and an active imagination.

Fast forward 10-some years, and a neighbor invited me and another young teen to her house for “tea.” Our mothers gave us some basic instructions on proper behavior – use our manners, sit up straight, please and thank you, don’t chew with your mouth open or talk with your mouth full, don’t embarrass me – and off we went.

We felt quite honored to be invited but were also a bit apprehensive. Mrs. P was a schoolteacher as well as a friend and neighbor. We were warmly welcomed and invited in. A linen tablecloth laid the foundation for matching china plates, cups and saucers, and sparkling crystal glassware. Linen napkins were properly placed under the silverware, and after a few words of welcome, we were invited to take a seat at the table. (My memory does not include what in the world I wore, but I assume my mother made sure I was presentable.)

Our lunch, as I recall, consisted of uncrusted tuna and egg salad sandwiches, cut into triangles, a fruit cup and homemade cookies. And tea, of course, poured from a fine old English teapot. Mrs. P got and kept the conversation going, asking probing questions that prompted us to think a little deeper than our 14-year-old brains were accustomed to doing. It was a memorable event and one I often thought maybe I could have, should have, tried to replicate sometime during my lifetime. But I didn’t.

Oh, I’ve had friends at my kitchen table for tea and maybe a cookie, but not like the afternoon at Mrs. P’s.

I made up for it by pulling out my original little china tea set with my own daughter and her best friend, her pink teddy bear, and pretending to have tea on the living room floor. Another 30 years later, my granddaughter and her “Dolly” joined me again on the living room floor for “tea” on the old tea set we now call the “breakables.” Please be careful – they’re antiques now. How did that happen?

In the blink of an eye, my granddaughter was a very mature 7-year-old and time was flying. It was time to make a trip to Chicago to the American Girl Doll store. I hesitate to call it a store. If you haven’t had the experience, I’m not sure the best way to describe it. The word emporium comes to mind. An emporium for women and girls, with a random, befuddled-looking grandfather who almost seems frightened as he wonders what in the world this place is.

It is a very girly place, all pink and sparkly, with excited young girls in search of their favorite themed American Girl doll, her story and all the paraphernalia she just has to have. And while we’re at it, the new owner might just persuade Mom or, better yet, Grandmother, to buy a matching outfit for the little miss.

Signage directs those in need of repair to the “hospital” that will fix your “girl” right up while you browse for more must-haves. Or if an overzealous owner got carried away with hairstyling, there is a beauty shop on site to restore her hairdo to its original appearance, be it pigtails or ponytails.

And of course there’s a restaurant, complete with booster seats for your “girl” to join the generations for tea and birthday parties.

In the real world, for the rest of us, almost every nearby town has its own version of a tearoom, complete with florals and lace, tea sandwiches, quiches and salads. You can be certain there will be a table of little girls in their frilliest dresses and shiny patent leather shoes celebrating a birthday.

Men are welcome, but know in advance what to expect. I’m just sayin’.