I’m feeling very nostalgic lately. The X-Files is back on TV, I’m working on self-assigned homework, my job very much resembles cramming for an exam some days, and I’ve also had the flu which generally reverts my age by at least five years.
So I pulled these teacups out of the cabinet to take a photo. I’ve been meaning to do it for some time, in case they get damaged (the joys of earthquake country) and I’m glad I finally have.
I have a growing collection of fancy teacups, but these are special. My grandmother was British, and she’s the one who taught me to love tea. We started when I was very young, when my cup was mostly milk with a bit of sugar and a few drops of tea, until the milk got less and less, and the tea got to be more and more. We always used the same teacups, too — she would drink from the one with the roses, and I would use the one with the violets.
I loved getting to have tea with Nanna. It wasn’t fancy, really, but we’d drink our tea together, and speak of lady-like things (because this was before I realized I had no interest in being a lady) and I would get to use a fancy teacup. She never worried I would break it or hover over me telling me to be careful, and I never did. I may not have figured out how to get my scones to taste like hers, but seeing these teacups makes me smile.