Wow what a day! Okay, so this morning we packed the car with all the Christmas gifts and hit the road, like Santa setting out from the Pole. We stopped at my brother and sister in laws, dropped off some gifts for Christmas morning, sampled a delicious mincemeat tart right out of the oven and back on the road we went. Today was my sister’s birthday and everyone headed home to my parents to celebrate. Everyone was home including all my nieces and nephews, most of whom are under four and the eldest is only ten. As you can imagine, the party was a marvelous riot of noise, chaos, adults and kids in every direction, cake smeared on faces, bows placed atop heads, wine bottled emptied, plates scraped and lots of laughter. It was a great afternoon, loud, but filled with family.
After the party we stopped at a dear friend’s, a friend from my university days, for a Christmas tea. It was a great time, the tree twinkling softly in the corner, soft lights, hot teas, plates full of food balanced on your lap and endless laughter and stories. I sat there, thoroughly enjoying myself, and the whole experience reminded me of why I love high teas and the first time I ever experienced one. To be honest, the first time I had a high tea was only two years ago and it has already become a tradition. Two summers ago, while we were dating, my guy and I took a trip to England to meet and visit with his uncle and aunt in Paignton, Devon, down along the south coast of England. It was a perfect English summer, clear blue skies, warm days, no rain, vibrant green fields and the sea, always the sea, beyond the cliffs, shining in the sun. We saw ponies on the moors, sailed down the river Dart, feasted in small bakeries, supped on carvery, sampled pear and apple ciders, gulped down cockles in paper cups sold from chip trucks by the sea all washed down by beers galore. I had chip butties, and eggs and chips, and real Cornish pasties sitting on the breakwater in Padstow in Cornwall.
One brilliant afternoon, I was introduced to the glories of the high English cream tea. We traveled over to Torquay and shortly past three, we entered the Grand hotel, a majestic old place with a terrace on which we sat that overlooks the sparkling bay. I remember feeling the breeze from the sea and knowing that this moment would make a memory. Shiny pots of tea arrived, carried by waiters in black and whites, the shirts still starched, the bow ties unloosened. White crockery cups, small plates piled in delicate almond cookies, sugar in cubes. That tea went down fine, somehow appropriate, calling us to slow down. Soon, plates of finger sandwiches arrived, lean, rare beef with horseradish, cheese and pickle, tomato and cream cheese, water crest and cheese, all fanned before us. Honestly, in normal circumstances, I would have eaten the entire plate and looked for more, but just then, it was enough. Just when it seemed complete, carried before them in the place of honour, the waiters placed the cream scones before us, impossibly high, golden brown on all sides, dusted as if blown on the breath of babies with powdered sugar. Tubs of Devon cream nestled beside pots of home made strawberry jams. I make my own strawberry jam every year and can appreciate a good, full fruit jam, the berries still retaining the sun in the fields. I remember cutting the scones, flakes falling from my knife, and then covering them with cream and jam. That first magical taste and I was hooked. Each bite required another slathering of cream and jam and all too soon the scone was gone and I was left only with its memory. Even now, I can recall exactly how it was to sit there, on that terrace, the breeze from the sea, the sun bouncing of the water, the tea warm in my hand, the scone light between my fingers, the cream and jam still on my lips, family beside me, my guy smiling from across the table, the perfect English tea. And now it is a tradition we carry here in our home and in the homes of our friends. Food is magical sometimes and causes us to change; it can shape and twist and reform our life by adding its texture and its meaning to the everyday.
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