Meeting Early Grey

As I entered Debby’s house that Saturday afternoon, I was welcomed by the smell of homemade scones even as she greeted me. “Come in! I was just about to put on a pot of tea!”

She’d invited me to watch an old movie, one of her favorites on VHS, from the extensive collection she proudly maintained and catalogued. The film was something British, though I don’t remember now what the title was. She asked me what kind of tea I liked, and I hesitated. In my uninitiated 20-something’s mind, “tea” in someone’s home (as opposed to a restaurant) meant Lipton; plain, black tea. 

“Do you like Earl Grey?” she asked.

“Earl Who?”

Debby stopped mid-way to the kitchen, laughing, and turned to face me. “You’ve never had Earl Grey tea?”

I shrugged. This didn’t seem like the right time to elaborate. “Nope.”

“That’s settled, then. Earl Grey it is! Perfect with our movie!”

In the next few minutes, my understanding of what it meant to “put on a pot of tea” was forever changed. In the next few years, my understanding of friendship and grief was too.

Prior to that day, making tea in my house usually involved heating a cup of water in the microwave and dropping a tea bag in to steep til the color looked right. Maybe adding a bit of sugar or honey, maybe not. If two people wanted tea, it might be worth the extra effort to boil the water on the stove so that two cups would be hot at the same time, but that was the extent of the preparation: heat water, add tea bag, sweeten.

Debby’s kitchen was her sweet spot. A magical place where she created delectable masterpieces. I loved to watch her working her culinary magic. She preferred to work alone, but welcomed company and chit-chat. My favorite spot from which to observe was the corner nearest the doorway into the dining room. From there, I could stay well out of the way, see what was happening, and admire every nook and cranny of her homey kitchen.

Antiques were everywhere in Debby’s house, and the kitchen was no exception. Old utensils hung on the wall, many I had no reference for, but she loved to tell me what they were and how they had been used in days gone by. Most of those had wooden handles with peeling green paint, and were there only for decorative value. Every kitchen surface was almost full, leaving just enough space to work. A high rectangular table in the center of the room made up for the otherwise scarce counter space. There were charmingly chipped enamel canisters, white with red trim, and piles of cookbooks with worn linen covers and yellowing pages - arranged just so, just for the aesthetic. Frequently used tools were at the ready - spoons, spatulas, whisks and tongs - some on hooks and some standing in a crockery pot. Favorite spices and oils were in easy reach from the stove. This was a well used kitchen.

In the years to come, we had many great conversations in this space, while she moved around the center table, from counter to stove to refrigerator and cupboards, barely stopping and rarely consulting a recipe. When I wasn’t watching her from my place in the corner, I would look up near the ceiling opposite me. On top of the cupboard, there stood a light green coffee carafe with a lid (Fiestaware, I would eventually learn). It was always where my eye landed, and over time I associated it with these hours spent in the company of my one-of-a-kind friend.

On this occasion, I didn’t expect to be here long - she would just be making tea. Little did I know I was about to witness a finely tuned ritual.

First, after tying on an apron, she filled her large tea kettle to the top with water, and lit the gas burner on the stove with a match. Adjusting the flame, she set the heavy kettle on the burner to boil. I thought surely she was heating far more water than we would need, but I kept this observation to myself. Gliding by me into the dining room she opened the beautiful glass front cabinet and selected a small teapot, two teacups with matching saucers, a small cream pitcher and three small plates from her enormous collection. Leaving just two of the plates and the saucers in a stack on the dining table, she carefully placed the pitcher, teapot, teacups and one plate in a line on the tall kitchen work table.

I watched as Debby pulled a carton of cream from the fridge and poured some into the pitcher. She set this fairly near the high flame under the kettle, which was so full the water was still barely bubbling. The way she placed it so close to the flame implied some intent. Was she warming it? Coming in my direction now, she grabbed a canister off the counter, pulled off the lid, inhaled deeply, then held it out to me.

“Smell this!” Her eyes were twinking and her slight smile indicated anticipation.

I took in the aroma, unlike anything familiar to me at that time. “So interesting - I don’t recognize it” I said.

“Isn’t it wonderful?”

“Yes! It’s … cozy, and…warm? If a smell can be warm. What is that, exactly?”

“Bergamot. If you love this tea, and I think you will, you’ll be seeking out Bergamot for the rest of your days. In candles, in lotions, and of course, Earl Grey.”

She headed back to the stove to check the kettle. The water was beginning to boil now, as I could hear it rumbling, but no whistle was discernible yet. She poured water into the teapot and cups, and replaced the kettle on the burner to finish the boil. The teapot had a lid, but she draped a heavy towel over the two cups of water. She then set her 50s-era Mirro timer for two minutes.

“So, what’s with the towel?”

“I’m warming our cups - very important. Never skip this step.”

“Noted!” I chuckled.

When the timer rang, she poured the water out of the teapot, and added three scoops of the aromatic tea. Just then, the sound from the kettle on the stove changed to a hiss and she quickly turned off the flame, moving the kettle before it could whistle. “The Kitties don’t like the squealing,” she explained. Ah, the kitties… her loves. Not really a cat person myself, I was learning to put up with these two. Hanging out with Debby meant enough to me that I gladly made accommodations. 

The water’s full boil had loosened the lid of the old kettle and the steam was escaping all around it. She picked up her timer again and set it for 3 minutes.

“Did you forget to pour the water over the tea?”

She smiled as she brushed by me. “Patience, my dear.” Almost whispered, this tipped me off that I may have been annoying my hostess. As she started laying out our places at her dining table, she explained that the water needed to rest - to cool off just a little - to avoid burning the leaves and making the tea bitter.

The timer rang again. This time she poured the water over the leaves in the teapot ever so slowly, then put on the lid. She placed the pot on the center of our dining table, and wrapped it in a quilted cozy. The trusty timer was set again, this time for 4 minutes, and she finished setting the table. Mismatched china plates with floral patterns were laid in front of each chair. At each place, a saucer for the teacup, a cloth napkin, a teaspoon, a butter knife, and two of the tiniest silver spoons I’d ever seen (demitasse spoons, she told me later).

In the center of the table next to the teapot, she placed four freshly baked scones on a china plate, and two matching ramekins from the fridge - one with creme fraiche, and one with currant jam. Ah - she had been planning this after all. As she pulled a bowl of sugar cubes from the sideboard, she asked me to go fetch the pitcher of cream that had been warming next to the stove. While I was doing that, she emptied the water from our teacups and brought them out to their waiting saucers. 

When the Mirro timer rang for the final time, we sat, and the culmination of this production unfolded. She poured a bit of cream in each cup, then using tiny tongs, dropped in a single sugar cube. Holding a little strainer by its ornate silver handle in one hand, Debby used the other hand to pour tea through the strainer and into my cup lifting the pot high for a bit of drama, clearly delighted and eager for me to enjoy it.

Amazed as I was by our impromptu tea party, I couldn’t help but wonder how a less spontaneous one would be any better. It seemed to me she’d thought of everything, and pulled it together in just twenty minutes. While we sipped, and enjoyed our scones, Debby prepared me for the movie we would be watching. She told me about the actors, why she loved them, and how this film had become one of her favorites. I had come over to watch a movie, but I also got a preview of many adventures that followed with Debby, and how I should be ready for delightful detours.

I learned early on to be ready for anything when we were together. One Saturday, our plan was to have a quick breakfast at Debby’s, then visit an upscale antique store nearby. I told my husband I’d be home in the early afternoon. Debby and I spent so much time in the antique store that we were both famished, so of course we went to lunch after. As we discussed what we’d seen, Debby realized I would benefit from a point of reference. After lunch, she drove us 30 minutes east (I lived 20 minutes southwest) and we spent the rest of the afternoon browsing a much broader range of items at a cluster of antique malls within walking distance of each other. All that walking meant we had to sit down for iced tea (not once, but twice!) to find respite from the California sun. I remember finding a pay phone - this was before cell phones - to let my husband know I’d be much later than expected, but I think I did make it home for dinner. 

Thinking back to that day and the Earl Grey tea party, I recall how mesmerized I was by the breakfront cabinet, jammed with beautiful pieces collected over many years. She collected all sorts of things, but the china cup and saucer sets may have been the largest assemblage of like items. She used them, of course, but she also gave them as gifts.

One signature gift from Debby consisted of a cup & saucer resting atop an old book (another of her collections), held in place by wide ribbon crossed underneath, and tied at the top with a gorgeous and dramatically large bow. Each set was carefully selected to fit the occasion at hand. One wedding anniversary, for example, she gave me an old book of romantic sonnets, the perfect size to hold the cup & saucer, with a binding that crackled as I carefully opened it. The ribbon - double layers - included a wide satin floral pattern with a slightly narrower ribbon on top made of sheer organza. The colors of the entire ensemble were always complementary, of course, and mine that year featured dark teal in the ribbon and dusty rose on the porcelain teacup, a nod to my wedding colors. I had no memory of telling her my wedding colors, but she had obviously been planning this and found a way to inquire. From fairly simple components pulled from her personal stash she fashioned an extravagant looking and memorable gift. She gave versions of this gift to many friends, on many occasions, and usually with no shopping outside of her home required.

My many questions about her various collections (books, china, silver, linens, antique cologne bottles) led to lessons about the magic of the hunt. I began to go with her occasionally, and saw her in action - her eyes trained to find pieces she loved among the piles and stacks inside antique malls. She had enough knowledge to effectively negotiate to get items for the price she was willing to pay, and she also had a strong enough will to walk away rather than pay too much. She taught me how to spot linens like dresser scarves or crochet doilies with stains that would most likely come out. These were cheaper of course, and if she couldn’t remove the stains, she made them look nice with either a dye job or a tea bath to stain them all over, camouflaging the imperfection.

For Debby, this process of collecting, correcting, curating and creating was all a metaphor for redemption. Her faith was the driving force in her life, and if you knew her well, you heard plenty about that. She told me on one shopping trip how this had come together for her, the idea of “trash to treasure”. As she took her purchases through the process of readying them for their repurposed lives, she would do it with genuine love and care, making them into the best they could be. This was how she imagined God to be continually refining and recreating her.

We built quite a bond over the years, sharing about life as we drove here or there in search of the perfect items to re-home or transform. Every visit to her home included a review of her latest treasures, and how she hoped to use them. Some had a future in her home, some would be gifts, and some she would sell. Regardless, each piece filled her with joy.

Eventually Debby did have a small side business, renting space in an antiques and collectibles mall to sell select pieces from her collections. Her space stood out from most others with its artful aesthetic. There were no piles or jumbles - she thought it better to restock it often, keeping just a few items tastefully displayed at any given time. 

She opened my eyes to beautiful potential and possibilities in both objects and people. To this day I find joy in a trip to an antique mall. I am especially drawn to collectibles more than true antiques, and also to an occasional piece of junk. These trips used to be all about the fun of discovery, stirring up childhood memories, and searching for decorating inspiration. Now, in addition to all of that, they serve as a reminder of a treasured friend, and fill me with gratitude for the times we shared.

I lost touch with Debby during a three year period when I lived away from the city where we met. She moved to an apartment and I didn’t have her new contact information. We had just reunited (with help of mutual friends) when I moved back into the area, and we committed to monthly breakfast meet-ups. During our first one, she excused herself to take a call, and returned to the table, crestfallen. Clearly she had received some bad news.

“Can you drive me home, please? I’ll meet you outside. Here’s my credit card - this one’s on me.” When I protested, she said “I need to go outside for some air, maybe they can box up our food. You can buy breakfast next month.”

We would not share breakfast the following month. Debby died unexpectedly within that very week. I learned so much from her over the years we were friends, beginning with my lesson on how to properly brew a pot of tea. Her sudden death and the days just before taught me not to take simple pleasures for granted. The details around this unexpected loss and how it unfolded for me are a story all their own. For now, I’ll just say that Earl Grey still warms my heart with every sip.