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TEA TIME
By: KELLY BENNETT
An invitation from a friend to have “a cup of
tea,” prompts a journey back through tea
times past—specifically those shared with
one brown, stubby and long snouted pot
with a chipped lid.
“Shall we have a cup of tea?”
To three-year-old me, the
question was so much more
than an offer to share a cup
of brown, flavored water
and cookies. Couched in
my grandmother’s crushed
velvet tones, it was a magical
ticket, a charmed elixir
inviting me into her world.
Nodding eagerly, I’d wiggle
onto one of the smooth
wooden benches lining the
breakfast nook to watch the
ritual unfold. First came
the service, chosen from
the assortment of cup and
saucer sets holding a place
of honor in the front row
of the china closet. Nanny
called them friendship cups,
recalling a ladies’ club she
had belonged to once. On
special occasions, birthdays,
Christmas, Valentine’s and
May Day, members would
exchange these flowery cup
and saucer sets. My favorite
was a gaudy combination
of hot pink, lavender and
gold leaf. To my puzzlement,
Nanny favored a plain, white
set with a fluted edge and a
single violet blossom. She
called it delicate. Next, a
plate of cookies, napkins,
spoons, the sugar bowl and
creamer found their way to
the table. Finally, when the
kettle called, Nanny lifted
her teapot down from its
perch at the back of the
stove.
As teapots go, Nanny’s
was not much to
look at; it wasn’t
delicate, or
colorfully
painted; nor was it shaped
like a clock, a church, or
Mama Rabbit. Nanny’s pot
was brown, stubby and
long snouted. Next to the
fancy teacups it looked
quite odd. I thought it the
most exotic teapot in the
whole world. It had traveled
across the sea in a sailing
ship, surviving storm-tossed
oceans, the wrath of a greedy
captain, mutiny, and a
rough wagon ride across the
prairie from San Francisco.
Nanny’s mother, my greatgrandmother
Ellena, brought
the teapot with her from
Portugal to California
wrapped in a petticoat and
tucked into a wooden trunk.
The trunk is long gone.
Nanny and the teapot
were such old friends
that she knew to the
second, how long
to steep the tea.
When the time
was right, Nanny
lifted the pot and
a graceful arch
of amber liquid
flowed.
KELLY BENNETT
Once tea was served, the
exacting task of “fixing” each
cup began. To me “fixing” the
tea meant adding three sugars
and a generous portion of
milk to my cup, then stirring
until the tea was lukewarm
and syrupy. Nanny took hers
with just a drop of milk. I
practiced hard, but never
mastered the art of adding
“just a drop” or stirring
without clinking.
Sometimes the men
folk joined us for a cup of
tea, usually during a lively
game of cards: nickel a
hand, winner takes the
pot. Or when the elements
combined to create just the
right combination of fog and
cold, my grandfather would
ask Nanny to brew a pot.
“Nothing like a nice cup of
tea to chase away the chill,”
he’d say, digging his knarled
carpet-layer’s fingers into the
cookie jar.
My mother didn’t share
our devotion to teatime. She
was more the Coca Colawith-lots-of-ice-and-lemon
type, all jazz and fizz. “I’ll
leave the tea to you la-laladies,”
she’d say fluttering
her eyelashes and flouncing
away. Though I feigned
disappointment, I was
delighted to have Nanny to
myself.
In spring, birds hidden
among the grape-like clusters
of wisteria blossoms framing
the breakfast nook windows,
entertained us. Come
summer, we welcomed the
breeze that wafted in through
those windows. Then, our tea
was accompanied by thick
slices of bread smeared with
blackberry preserves—which
tasted all the sweeter because
we picked the berries,
crushed, sugared and cooked
them ourselves.
When the leaves started
falling, Nanny and I baked
peanut butter cookies,
pressed flat with the
tines of a fork,
to have with
our tea.
Sometimes my doll came to
tea. Then, Nanny took a
miniature, blue-edged
tea set from the
china closet and
laid an extra
place.
Over the
years, fate
and fortune
took me far
from my
grandmother’s
kitchen. Each
time I returned,
a pot of tea was
all it took for the
miles and years
separating us to melt
like sugar crystals on a
spoon. The type of tea was
never as important as the
ritual itself. We switched
between loose leaf and
bagged teas, exotic imports
and homemade blends. After
hearing how Nanny and her
sisters had dried dandelion,
clover and mint for tea
during The Great Depression,
I was inspired to create my
own tea blend. I scoured
the neighborhood for likely
leaves to dry. Rose petals and
hips, chamomile, geranium,
all varieties of mint, lavender,
sage, rosemary and even basil
leaves found their way into
our pot.
Of all the teas we tried,
one stands out in particular:
Lapsong Souchong. In a
high school literature class
I discovered a Lapsong
Souchong drinking writer
named W. Somerset
Maugham. I’d managed to
find a box of Maugham’s
preferred leaves and couldn’t
wait for Nanny to taste it.
With an enthusiasm that
seemed to echo mine, Nanny
steeped a pot of the dark,
pungent brew. We sipped
and nodded, agreeing that
the new tea was different—
interesting… We then went
on to discuss Rain, my
favorite of Maugham’s novels.
Nanny had just delighted me
with the news that back in
the 30’s, Rain had been made
into a movie starring Joan
Crawford, when my brother
burst into the kitchen.
“What’s that disgusting
smell?” He hollered, plugging
his nose, “Who cut one?”
We looked at each other
and started laughing. My
brother was right. Still
laughing, we ceremonially
dumped the rest of the tea
into the compost heap. Suffice
to say, W. Somerset Maugham
lost most of his fascination
that day.
No topic was taboo
during teatime. Nanny caught
me up on friends, family,
the neighbors and the soap
operas. I in turn, spilled my
guts about school, friends,
boys—or rather, the lack of
boys that liked me.
We planned my wedding
over a pot of tea. Choose
baby names, shared
mothering stories. My
son, Max, tried his
first sip of tea from
Nanny’s cup (which he
promptly spit back).
His sister, Alexis, felt
the magic of teatime
from the first. The
miniature blue-edged tea
set came out of retirement
for her second birthday.
When an unexpected heart
attack took my grandfather,
I returned home to find the
kettle empty. Days later, after
the shock and the funeral and
the visitors, Nanny poured
herself a cup of tea. She drank
it strong and black, from my
grandfather, Poppy’s plain
brown mug, and allowed
herself to begin grieving for
the strong, dear man with
whom she’d made a life.
The teapot was filled
and emptied often during
those last precious years
we shared with Nanny. The
“No topic was taboo during teatime. Nanny caught
me up on friends, family, the neighbors and the
soap operas. I in turn, spilled my guts about school,
friends, boys—or rather, the lack of boys that liked
me.”
sudden reality of mortality
allowed us to cast aside
mundane concerns: ironed
shirts, dust-free knickknacks,
weeds, new magazines and
tidy cupboards in favor
of lazy afternoons spent
stirring elixir and memories.
If I hadn’t learned it before,
Nanny taught me then: the
magic of teatime is not in the
teapot or well-chosen leaves,
nor even in proper steeping.
The magic is in time shared.
Nanny’s stubby, long
snouted teapot now stands on
a shelf in my Jakarta kitchen.
And yes, it still brews a fine
cup of tea.
Tea Time in
Jakarta
Tea Time is a delightful
way to relax and refresh,
catch up with friends,
cast off the cares of the
day. Several Jakarta
hotels serve “High Tea”
worth dieting for. Here
are a few of my favorites:
Hotel Indonesia
Kempinski: Served in
the comfy ground-floor
lounge, it’s your choice
for “High Tea”—sweet or
savory. Sweet High Tea
includes a selection of
bite-sized desserts, and
scones with cream and
jam, of course; Savory
High Tea features a variety
of finger sandwiches and
savory bites.
Shangri-La Hotel: High
Tea served buffet style.
For those who enjoy
many choices. Guests are
treated to a smorgasbord
of treats— sweet and
savory—scrumptious and
plentiful enough to serve
as dinner.
Hotel Darmawangsa:
choose between proper
english “high tea” or
indonesian-style tea, both
served with panache.
Or, if you’re feeling
naughty (or festive), skip
the tea and go for one
of the Darm’s infamous
chocolate Martinis.
Home sweet home:
as my grandmother
taught me, Tea Time
doesn’t have to be a
fancy affair. all one really
needs is tea—the world’s
finest is grown right here
on Java—a teapot, cups
(sans the pot if you prefer
the Tea-bag method),
hot water and, most
importantly, a friend to
share it with.
Shall we have a cup of
tea?
76 | MAY 2011 www.nowjakarta.co.id www.nowjakarta.co.id MAY 2011 | 77