Between my husband and I, we’ve inherited three tea sets, none of which have ever been used or will be. Nor will they be given away or sold; very likely, our son will inherit it.
Mine’s a tea set that includes a tea pot, creamer, sugar bowl with six cups and saucers. It’s in dull pink with a thin gold rim, gifted to my parents on their wedding by a friend. I knew, and was rather fond of this friend, and so when my mother in an unsentimental rush started giving away heirlooms, I claimed this tea set. It sits in a box, in bubble-wrapped protection while I figure out where to display it in my minimalist-themed home.
Then there’s the blue and white tea set with the squat pot, a short creamer and a fat sugar bowl. It’s pretty, delicate, eminently breakable and belonged to my mother-in-law. Maybe there’s a story there but I’ll never know.
But the one that occupies pride of place, that’s part of my recurring nightmare in which I watch the whole set drop to the ground and break noisily, is the Wedgwood Woodland Pink tea service bought by my mother-in-law in London sometime in the ‘70s. She managed to transport the entire set to India with no casualties. It’s beautifully English, not in production anymore and a real collector’s item.
My morning cup of tea is best enjoyed in a red polka dotted mug that I found in my house, soon after I got married and moved in. It’s clearly a remnant of a larger set of which nothing else has survived. I don’t know where it comes from or how it got here. It’s chipped at the rim, and I don’t even like it very much. But importantly for me, it holds a generous amount of tea – just a bit more than standard-issue tea mugs.
Now, this is the one I will guard more carefully than the rest.
