Biscuits and Tea

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Feb 17, 2008 Biscuits and Tea

Engebrecht

The legendary hostess, Gillian, and her husband were coming to visit. I wanted

their stay to be as perfect as the one my husband had experienced at their home

the previous year.

My house underwent a scrubbing the likes of which it seldom endured. The week’s

menu was plotted and printed out, recipes included. All the shopping for

ingredients was complete. Crystal sparkled, and china plates nestled in silver

chargers that set off their delicate design. They all stood waiting to serve us

in elegant style.

At last, the time to relax was upon me. The knowledge that fluffy blue towels

tied with an ivory bow awaited our guests filled me with a smug satisfaction. It

would have been nice to know how to fold towels into little swans like they did

in that fancy Mexican hotel, but my ivory bow looked lovely. The welcome note

leaned against the lavender soap and a vase of forget-me-nots on the sink was a

most thoughtful touch. I’d done well, and I knew it.

Muscles grew limp as my head drifted until it rested against the back of the

La-Z-Boy. Silence settled around me. All was ready. Peace reigned. Suddenly,

anxiety rumbled.

“Tea!” I shouted. “I forgot to buy tea.”

My husband, that knight in faded blue jeans, charged into the room. “What?”

“Tea. I said TEA. Gillian must have tea. I only have herbal teas. The English

don’t drink that, do they? Oh, dear me, I don’t know what she drinks.” By this

time I was out of the chair and flapping my arms in frustration.

My knight folded me into his arms, then gently sat us both on the sofa. “She’ll

bring her own tea.”

Hope, like a delicate flower, began to blossom. “Do you really think so?”

“Yes, dear.”

He was right. Gillian came bearing not only her own tea, but an insulated pot as

well. All I needed to supply was a teakettle to warm water and cups to hold the

elixir once it was brewed. I’m used to sloshing hot water over a tea bag, using

the string to jiggle it up and down, splashing some 1% milk in, then calling it

good. It’s the American Way. But the English, now that’s a different kettle

altogether. Tea is a serious matter.

Gillian had a procedure, bordering on an art form, for making tea. It was

difficult giving up being the perfect hostess and letting her loose in the

kitchen to perform her magic. She was very much at home in the kitchen, singing

as she rattled about. Her voice called out, “Missus? You will join me, won’t

you, darling?”

“Yes, that would be lovely.” There was security in the fact that I’d done my

part by setting out cups, dessert plates, and napkins—the linen ones, of course.

Gillian entered the dining room with a teapot in one hand and a tin of homemade

biscuits in the other.

Though our visits have become more frequent over the years, too many miles still

separate us. Now the excitement over being together has nothing to do with

menus, folding towels, or polishing silver. Gillian and I have become sisters.

“Sisters by choice” is what we call this knitting together over biscuits and

tea.

Reprinted by permission of Engebrecht © 2007 from Chicken Soup for the

Tea Lover’s Soul by Jack Canfield, Mark Victor Hansen and Lorenz. In

order to protect the rights of the copyright holder, no portion of this

publication may be reproduced without prior written consent. All rights

reserved.

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