Tea With Carol

My friend Carol, called me on Christmas Eve from her home in Dorset, England. As we spoke I was reminded of this piece I wrote a few years ago, in response to a call out for "Tea Lover" stories. Revisiting it again, brings back many delightful memories of my British buddy, whose warm tea and witty conversation I miss so very much.

I thought I was a tea drinker. Every day I consumed several glasses of that delightful beverage, iced, with a touch of sweetner. So I figured that made me a "tea lover". Then I met Carol.

Carol was from England. She had come to "the states" with her husband and young son and they began attending my church.

Carol was warm and witty, we quickly became close friends. Her husband, Chris was the on-site maintenance supervisor for an apartment complex down the street from our church. I lived on the other side of town. So the convenience of her location, coupled with her welcoming hospitality, made Carol's home a natural meeting place. I could regularily be found sitting in her dining room drinking tea.

Strong hot tea served with milk in sturdy mugs. With her British roots, Carol believed this was the only proper way to serve tea. Adding ice she said, was an insult to the leaves. Compounding this injustice by adding lemon was high-treason. To drink tea without a bit of milk in it, well, only uncivilized peasants did such a thing.

I was not in the habit of putting milk in my tea. Quite frankly I thought it tasted a little weird that way. I would, however, never have offended Carol by asking her to serve it otherwise.

I was unmarried, with a teenage daughter who usually worked on weekends. So, I was frequently invited to Sunday supper at Chris and Carol's home. These suppers introduced me to classic English dishes, like Bangers & Mash and Shepherd's Pie. They also reflected how quickly Carol was becoming a fan of our typical American food fare. She was especially fond of pizza topped with ground beef & pineapple. Which she ate, in proper British fashion, with a knife and fork.

Carol loved baking savory desserts. These were leisurely consumed with pots of tea, on her patio, accompanied by lively conversation and hearty laughter.

I repaid Carol's gastronomic hospitality by chaufferuring her. Carol hated driving in America. Our California freeway system terrified her and she assiduously avoided it. She consistently sought alternate routes and traveled back roads even when doing so took her miles out of her way. So, whenever possible, I would drive for her. Always upon returning her safely home, regardless of the time, she invited me in for a cup of tea. Carol believed that anyone who boldly navigated the treacherous minefield we call a highway needed "bracing up" afterward.

In Carol's eyes, hot milky tea was more than just a thirst quenching drink, it was comfort in a cup. She lit the flame under her copper kettle on hot summer afternoons, as readily as she did on cold winter nights.

When Carol began publishing a church newsletter, I became convinced that her teabags had a supernatural ability for bringing out latent creativity in people. Her vision was to get as many members of our congregation involved in the newsletter as possible. She wanted a "family" paper that everyone related to and felt part of.

To accomplish this, she invited people over to her apartment for a "cuppa" tea. As they sat sipping the steaming brew, friends who did not even know they possessed such talents, were soon drawing cartoons, writing poetry, sharing stories, telling jokes, and jotting down recipes for publication in her monthly paper.

Carol's tea also seemed to have greenhouse properties. Lukewarm tea offended her taste-buds. She could not tolerate her guests drinking it. If her own cup sat long enough to cool off, she gathered up everyone's mugs and poured the contents into her many flower pots. Everything Carol "potted" from philodendrons to orchids flourished. Her patio was shaded by a plethora of leafy-green plants and cacti that she had rescued, restored, or rejuvenated with TLC and a "spot of tea."

Seven years after their arrival in California, a series of circumstances made it necessary for Chris and Carol to return to England. As we packed up belongings she was taking with her and yard saled items she could not take, we shared our last cups of tea together. Those were bittersweet days of reflecting on fun times we would no longer have and looking forward to good things awating her "across the pond".

Our tea got salty as we cried out our final hours together. As I hugged her good-bye, I promised to fly over soon and visit her.

After Carol left, I stopped putting milk in my tea. Even though I had acquired a taste for drinking it that way, I could never seem to get it quite right on my own. Perhaps it needed her British touch to steep properly. Maybe it was simply the company I drank it with that made the difference.

I haven't yet been able to fulfill my parting promise to Carol, but I am eagerly looking forward to the opportunity of doing so. I can think of nothing that would give me more pleasure than once again sharing a hot milky cup of tea with Carol.