Tea: Steeped in Cherished Memories
BY: Eileen Valinoti
Not long ago, I went to visit my elderly Aunt Mary who lives in a nursing home. Alzheimer's disease had taken its toll. As I sat beside her, my aunt stared vacantly into space, her once vibrant features frozen into an unhappy frown. She hardly glanced at the bouquet of daisies I had brought, and when I tried to take her hand, she pulled away from me in fright. I felt a terrible sense of loss, remembering how close we had been and the confidences we had shared through the years, usually over a cup of tea in her cozy kitchen.
As a very young girl, I loved to visit Aunt Mary. Childless herself, she had time and energy to lavish on a favorite niece. My favorite spot was a chair at her kitchen table where she always served me tea, sometimes accompanied by her Irish soda bread, thick with plump raisins and sprinkled with caraway seeds. She made an elegant ceremony out of our teas, covering the table with her snowy Irish linen tablecloth and putting out her finest china cups. As we drank our tea, she listened intently to my stories about school and my worries about friendship. No one else in my young life took me as seriously. Sometimes she would tell me tales of her childhood on a farm in Ireland, her fears on her journey to America over a storm-tossed ocean, her struggles as a young immigrant girl seeking work in a big city.
Aunt Mary taught me many things—how to take up a hem, how to write a thank-you note, and, most important of all, how to make a proper pot of tea. First, she told me, you put on the kettle, and just before the water comes to a boil, you fill the teapot halfway with hot water to warm it. When the kettle boils, you keep it simmering while you throw out the water in the teapot, and then put in a level spoonful of tea leaves—one for each person and one for the pot. After you add the boiling water, you let it steep for a few minutes. Then, before you serve it, you strain the leaves with care.
My aunt had a firm belief in the soothing powers of tea. Growing up, I had my share of adolescent misery. One snowy evening, I arrived at Aunt Mary's in tears over a broken romance. She helped me off with my coat, brushed the snow from my hair, and then said in a determined voice, "I'll put the kettle on."
I sat at her table in the kitchen and wiped my eyes. The sound of the kettle's singing whistle, the cheerful clatter of the dishes and silver as my aunt set the table, the sight of the white tablecloth with its embroidered green shamrocks, all served to calm my shattered spirit. Soon, I was warming my cold hands around a steaming cup, strong and dark and fragrant.
"Drink your tea," my aunt admonished. I felt the blood returning to my face. The ritual soothed and reassured. Life goes on, it said. One day at a time.
As we sipped our tea, Aunt Mary spoke to me about her own heartbreak when her husband died. But she drew strength and solace from friends and family, just as I would, indeed as I was doing now, restored by my aunt's sympathetic attention. In those moments, my aunt taught me a vital lesson in the power of empathy—a lesson I remember to this day.
Then, as a special treat, Aunt Mary read me my fortune in the tea leaves.
"You'll be meeting someone new—a tall, handsome young man," she said, gazing into the bottom of my cup. Soon, we were giggling together.
"When?" I heard myself asking, the tears now dried on my face.
"Soon," she intoned, "very soon." I left her that day with a lighter heart and a head full of dreams.
I thought of that long-ago afternoon as I sat beside my aunt in the nursing home, wondering if I would ever connect with her again. I looked out the window. It was beginning to get dark. A long drive home awaited me. I would have to leave soon. Yet I was reluctant to go without even a sign of recognition from my aunt.
But then I remembered passing the kitchen on the way to Aunt Mary's room and seeing an ancient teapot on the stove. With the permission of the staff, I went into the kitchen and set about making afternoon tea. I found a tray and arranged it with the teapot, two cups and saucers, lemon, sugar, and cream. I placed all on a paper doily—not as elegant as Aunt Mary's tablecloth, but it would do.
As a final touch, I added the daisies I had brought, putting them into a small vase.
"It's time for tea," I announced, as I carried the tray into my aunt's room. For the first time that day, there was a change in her facial expression. Her eyes widened with a look of pleased surprise. As I poured the tea and asked her old, familiar questions, "Lemon or cream? One sugar or two?" she suddenly reached for my hand and said, "Oh, my dear, how lovely."
It was as if the homely ritual with its associations of home and loved ones had awakened her dormant spirit. We might have been back together once again in her cozy kitchen. The bond between us could never be broken, I realized. We sat together then, sipping our tea, connected once more by the healing power of tea and sympathy.
source: http://www.beliefnet.com/Health/2008/02/Steeped-In-Cherished-Memories.aspx
Not long ago, I went to visit my elderly Aunt Mary who lives in a nursing home. Alzheimer's disease had taken its toll. As I sat beside her, my aunt stared vacantly into space, her once vibrant features frozen into an unhappy frown. She hardly glanced at the bouquet of daisies I had brought, and when I tried to take her hand, she pulled away from me in fright. I felt a terrible sense of loss, remembering how close we had been and the confidences we had shared through the years, usually over a cup of tea in her cozy kitchen.
As a very young girl, I loved to visit Aunt Mary. Childless herself, she had time and energy to lavish on a favorite niece. My favorite spot was a chair at her kitchen table where she always served me tea, sometimes accompanied by her Irish soda bread, thick with plump raisins and sprinkled with caraway seeds. She made an elegant ceremony out of our teas, covering the table with her snowy Irish linen tablecloth and putting out her finest china cups. As we drank our tea, she listened intently to my stories about school and my worries about friendship. No one else in my young life took me as seriously. Sometimes she would tell me tales of her childhood on a farm in Ireland, her fears on her journey to America over a storm-tossed ocean, her struggles as a young immigrant girl seeking work in a big city.
Aunt Mary taught me many things—how to take up a hem, how to write a thank-you note, and, most important of all, how to make a proper pot of tea. First, she told me, you put on the kettle, and just before the water comes to a boil, you fill the teapot halfway with hot water to warm it. When the kettle boils, you keep it simmering while you throw out the water in the teapot, and then put in a level spoonful of tea leaves—one for each person and one for the pot. After you add the boiling water, you let it steep for a few minutes. Then, before you serve it, you strain the leaves with care.
My aunt had a firm belief in the soothing powers of tea. Growing up, I had my share of adolescent misery. One snowy evening, I arrived at Aunt Mary's in tears over a broken romance. She helped me off with my coat, brushed the snow from my hair, and then said in a determined voice, "I'll put the kettle on."
I sat at her table in the kitchen and wiped my eyes. The sound of the kettle's singing whistle, the cheerful clatter of the dishes and silver as my aunt set the table, the sight of the white tablecloth with its embroidered green shamrocks, all served to calm my shattered spirit. Soon, I was warming my cold hands around a steaming cup, strong and dark and fragrant.
"Drink your tea," my aunt admonished. I felt the blood returning to my face. The ritual soothed and reassured. Life goes on, it said. One day at a time.
As we sipped our tea, Aunt Mary spoke to me about her own heartbreak when her husband died. But she drew strength and solace from friends and family, just as I would, indeed as I was doing now, restored by my aunt's sympathetic attention. In those moments, my aunt taught me a vital lesson in the power of empathy—a lesson I remember to this day.
Then, as a special treat, Aunt Mary read me my fortune in the tea leaves.
"You'll be meeting someone new—a tall, handsome young man," she said, gazing into the bottom of my cup. Soon, we were giggling together.
"When?" I heard myself asking, the tears now dried on my face.
"Soon," she intoned, "very soon." I left her that day with a lighter heart and a head full of dreams.
I thought of that long-ago afternoon as I sat beside my aunt in the nursing home, wondering if I would ever connect with her again. I looked out the window. It was beginning to get dark. A long drive home awaited me. I would have to leave soon. Yet I was reluctant to go without even a sign of recognition from my aunt.
But then I remembered passing the kitchen on the way to Aunt Mary's room and seeing an ancient teapot on the stove. With the permission of the staff, I went into the kitchen and set about making afternoon tea. I found a tray and arranged it with the teapot, two cups and saucers, lemon, sugar, and cream. I placed all on a paper doily—not as elegant as Aunt Mary's tablecloth, but it would do.
As a final touch, I added the daisies I had brought, putting them into a small vase.
"It's time for tea," I announced, as I carried the tray into my aunt's room. For the first time that day, there was a change in her facial expression. Her eyes widened with a look of pleased surprise. As I poured the tea and asked her old, familiar questions, "Lemon or cream? One sugar or two?" she suddenly reached for my hand and said, "Oh, my dear, how lovely."
It was as if the homely ritual with its associations of home and loved ones had awakened her dormant spirit. We might have been back together once again in her cozy kitchen. The bond between us could never be broken, I realized. We sat together then, sipping our tea, connected once more by the healing power of tea and sympathy.
source: http://www.beliefnet.com/Health/2008/02/Steeped-In-Cherished-Memories.aspx
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