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Afternoon Tea With My Mother — An Imaginary Tale
The first time I had hot “cream tea” was with a childhood friend. We were around eight years old, I suppose. One afternoon while playing in the yard with a friend, her mother called us inside. I didn’t know what was happening; my friend simply stated that it was time for tea. Once inside, there were adorable china teacups and saucers on the table, alongside crunchy cookies they called biscuits.
Her mom walked towards the table with a teapot in hand, pouring hot liquid into our cups as she sat down and filled her own. I frowned. This wasn’t any tea that I was used to; my idea of tea was poured over ice and maybe had a lemon wedge, but it was certainly not hot and served in a dainty cup. I also informed the two of them that cookies and biscuits are two different things. They laughed and they spoke with heavy English accents as they both coaxed me into tasting the hot tea. My friend added sugar and cream, laid a cookie on the side of the saucer, and pushed the teacup in front of me.
It was warm and inviting, unlike the refreshing tea of my southern roots. We lingered, we chatted, and the mother engaged us with conversation concerning current events, as if we were older. Their home had piles of books and magazines stacked seemingly everywhere. I observed the surroundings as I drank two cups of hot cream tea, and if I had to guess, the tea was most likely earl grey. I remember a slight floral note, probably bergamot.
I described the tea to my dad, and he dismissed the notion of making English tea without so much as a sideways glance. They moved away not long afterwards, heading back to England, I was told. A decade passed before I had English tea again. I started to enjoy high tea alone in my early twenties. Then as years passed, I would make reservations for true afternoon tea here and there with friends.
I sometimes dream up memories of having afternoon tea with my mother. I can imagine a lifetime of shared experiences that never occurred. I think of how we would have shopped for a prom dress, discussed boys, and how we would have laughed at wearing silly hats at afternoon tea parties. I picture her with my sister and me as adults sharing stories about our lives. I envision Mom at the dinner table for holidays. I fantasize about how she and my father would have interacted, whether they would have danced around the kitchen playfully in the evenings, showing too much affection in front of us girls. All fantasy, all make-believe…
My mother passed when I was a toddler. I never knew her—at all. I have created a vision of who I think she might have been from bits and pieces of others memories. I could say that I’ve missed out. I could say that I’ve been robbed. I could say many things. But I don’t. I simply hold on to daydreams of a relationship that never existed.
I have friends who have wonderful relationships with their mothers and other friends that have tumultuous mother-daughter relations. I could say to the latter that you must nurture, cherish, and mend that bond. But what do I know? I don’t. What I can say is that I know much more about a father-daughter bond. I can say that he filled the shoes of both parents for eons. I can say that a parent-child bond is so enormous that it’s unexplainable. But then, perhaps that is just my experience. My father, my sister, and I shared a bond built on tragedy after tragedy and even survival. There’s a whole novel buried in that sentence. Maybe I’ll write it one day, but putting pen to paper involves reliving the experience. Do I have the strength for that? I don’t know.
Dad passed a couple of years ago. The shadow of him is vast and seemingly unending; it overcomes the absence of my mother; it replaces the loss of her with the loss of him. I knew him; I only know of her. And, like my fantasies of a relationship with my mother, I create new dreams of how I’d still interact with my father—things we would do together, laughs we would share, advice I would seek, deep conversations we’d have about the world and our place in it, and how he’d always push me to enjoy life and everything it offered…
Perhaps I’d talk him into sharing afternoon tea and “biscuits.” Perhaps Mom would be there too. It could have happened. I have, after all, convinced my loving husband to go to afternoon tea with me. I’ll let you know if he follows through.
I’ve enjoyed wonderful afternoon tea service in the most beautiful locations.
Georgetown, SC
River Oak Cottage Tea Room at The Hopsewee Plantation
494 Hopsewee Rd.
Georgetown, SC 29440
https://www.hopsewee.com/dining/
Charleston, SC
The Charleston Place Hotel, Thoroughbred Club
130 Market Street
Charleston, SC 29401
https://charlestonplace.com/experiences/#!/e/afternoon-tea-at-the-thoroughbred-club-1f0aeb07
Nashville, TN
Spillin’ Tea, The Hermitage Hotel
231 6th Avenue N
Nashville, TN 37219
Greensboro, NC
O. Henry Afternoon Tea
624 Green Valley Rd
Greensboro, NC 27408
https://ohenryhotel.com/o-henry-tea
Palm Beach, FL
The Gilded Age Tea Service at The Flagler Museum
One Whitehall Way
Palm Beach, FL 33480
https://flaglermuseum.org/visiting/flagler-museum-cafe
Phoenix, AZ
The English Rose Tea Room
201 Easy St Ste 103
Carefree, AZ 85377
Minneapolis, MN
The Mad Hatter Tea House
1632 Ferry Street
Anoka, MN 55303
Ireland
Adare Manor
Adare, Co. Limerick Ireland
V94 W8WR
https://www.adaremanor.com/dining/afternoon-tea/
This year, I’d like to encourage all the mothers and daughters out there to share an afternoon tea experience. Relax, let time stand still for a moment, converse, laugh, and linger. If not for yourselves, for me. Let me live vicariously through your photos and captions, memories in the making—fodder for my own imaginative stories. Comment on this story and send me photos that capture the sweetness of your bond.
