food, and other musings: Tea Party

When I was a little girl, one of my favorite playmates was my grandmother's sister, my great aunt Margaret. She lives right next door to my grandmother and, way before I knew her, had bright shiny copper-colored hair. By the time I was born, it had turned steel grey. That woman could draw a mean streak, and the tea parties I had in her kitchen were glorious.

I would wander over to her house in the hot summer afternoons while my grandma was making dinner (which she always called supper). The thin path between their two houses passed by a small clutch of trees, a veritable forest to my tiny eyes that teemed with faeries and unicorns, wildebeest and knaves. I would walk slowly by, my eyes straining to pierce the dense fog of summery green leaves, breath held, hoping to see something magical. Birds tweeted at random and every time a shrill sweet blast trumpeted through the still air, my body went rigid with excitement and possibility.

By the time I made it to Margaret's house, I was deeply entrenched in the faraway lands of my imagination. I would beg to look through her jewelry, which she kept hidden in an old shoebox underneath the bed, full of heirlooms, priceless objets de luxe. Things like shiny brass buttons orphaned from a waistcoat, rhinestone-studded hat pins with a few stones gone missing, gaudy ropes of beaded necklaces that wound 'round my neck four and five times, scraps of sequined fabric, tarnished rings. Treasures only to a little girl who donned them and was transformed into an elven princess, dripping in diamonds and rubies, destined for greatness.

After the jewelry box, we would have a drawing contest. I made the rules, which meant I would decide what to draw, leaving the princess behind for the shrewd card shark. It was always the same: a house with tulips in the front yard and a car in the garage (I knew that drawing in three dimensions was a weak spot for my competition). I also reserved the right to choose the crayons Margaret could use. For myself I selected cherry-pink cerise, shimmering gold, and blues so blue they made the ocean depths seem pale. For Margaret I chose dull, muted colors, the ugliest in the box: burnt sienna, black, mustard yellow, grey, asparagus green. I was both judge and jury. No surprise, then, that the 6-year old beat the 60-year old every time. After I pronounced my victory (cheerfully oblivious to my own schemings) Margaret would agree with me in her down-home Southern drawl: "Well, I reckon you won. Your drawing is much prettier than mine."

After that she would suggest a tea party. She'd pull down her tea set, one she played with as a little girl. She kept it boxed up and most of the pieces were still there, a bit faded but only one or two chipped. The menu was always the same: ice-cold Coca-Cola, white powdered donuts, and Ruffles potato chips with Sealtest French onion dip if any was on hand. To me, these treats were foie gras, truffles, and champagne, just as the bits of string and buttons were gold and emeralds and the voices that called to me from the forest belonged to elves. Every bite was magic.

The next time I go to see Margaret, I may just suggest we get down the old tea set and have ourselves another tea party. I can think of nothing better than sitting in her still-same kitchen, brushing powdered sugar off my fingers, rekindling the magic of those long lost days.