The Kettle is On

I like a pot of tea. It’s something I remember always being part of my life—so much so that I’m fairly certain tea runs through my veins at this point.

My grandmother was Welsh and spent most of her adult life in England before meeting my French-Canadian grandfather and moving to Canada in her late 30s. There was a little thing called World War II happening at the time. He was in the military, and she was living in a billet town. A war bride, she left England behind to start a new life in Canada, bringing with her a few cultural traditions—one of them being afternoon tea. Thank goodness for that.

I grew up in a townhouse just ten doors down from my grandparents, which meant they were very much part of our day-to-day lives. My grandfather stopped by every afternoon with the newspaper after his walk, and my grandmother regularly hosted her friends for afternoon tea. This was also the one time I was firmly shooed away with, “Not right now, Pet—the ladies are here.” Apparently, tea was serious business.

My grandmother’s doctor had several English patients who were also war brides and had recently had babies. In true late-1950s fashion, he completely ignored all privacy laws (which probably didn’t exist yet) and shared their names and phone numbers so they could meet. They began gathering when their children were small and continued meeting as their children grew up—and then had children of their own. The daughters became close, like cousins, and the sons, too, grew up knowing each other their entire lives. All because of afternoon tea. Honestly, tea builds community.

When the war brides weren’t over, I’d run up the street to Nan’s house after school to see if she had a cookie or some other sweet treat. She always offered me something with my tea. After family dinners, tea was served with pudding or dessert. The kids got extra milk and a little more sugar—because childhood should be sweet. We also learned from experience that when Nan offered you something, you must accept or she would keep asking until you did!

I don’t see my parents as often now, but when I do spend time with them at the cottage, my dad always has his evening tea with a small snack before bed. If it’s cold, he might even sneak one in during the afternoon. Apple, tree, kettle.

Preparing tea is one of the ways I practice joy. First, I choose the teapot. I have several—because one simply cannot live with just one teapot.

There’s the small two-cup Brown Betty that belonged to my grandmother, which gives me a deep connection to our British heritage. There’s a blue pottery pot with adorable painted flowers—also a two-cup—that my parents gave me, along with a matching butter dish and salt and pepper shakers (because obviously those go with tea). Another was given to me by my mother from Bombay Company as part of a matching coffee and cake set when my first husband and I moved in together. I use that one when entertaining—it looks lovely on the table and makes guests feel fancy.

My favourite pot!

My favorite pot, used almost daily, is one I bought in my early 20s while living in Vancouver. It’s perfect for afternoon tea and holds four or five cups. This is the pot I use when friends come over. If I think we’ll drink slowly, the tea cozy comes out of the drawer. (If you’ve ever doubted a tea cozy, trust me—they work.)

Choosing the pot and preparing it always lifts my spirits.

I will admit that although my grandmother was not, I am a tea snob. I prefer loose-leaf tea, usually from an organic tea shop. And if I can find someone going to Barbados, there’s a tea company there that makes the most amazing blends, sold in the most beautiful little tins. There’s also a brand from England I adore—again, incredible flavors and gorgeous tins. Clearly, packaging matters. Honestly, the right tea is like nothing else.

Preparing tea is also an exercise in mindfulness for me. Selecting the pot. Choosing the tea. Setting the kettle on the stove and waiting for the cheerful whistle. Warming the pot slightly with hot water. Watching the hot water pour in, then waiting again.

Waiting for the tea to reach its perfect brew is crucial. Leave the strainer in too long and your tea becomes bitter. Not long enough, and congratulations—you’ve made hot water. I love pouring the tea into the cup, being careful not to overfill it or it will escape down the side like it’s making a dramatic exit. Then more waiting: holding the cup, feeling the warmth in your hands, blowing on the steam, taking that slow first sip to test the temperature.

It’s heaven in a cup.

The next time you prepare and enjoy a cup of tea, notice how it makes you feel. And if you suddenly feel calmer, happier, and slightly superior—well, that’s just the tea doing its job.

Also if you’re ever needing a group of women to gather or just wanting to sit with someone for tea, the kettle is on and the door is open.