Growing up, I used to have tea parties every few weeks with my neighborhood friends, Rita, Lucy and Blake. These parties usually went the same way each time.
First, I’d beg my mother to get down the semi-nice tea cups. Then my friends and I scrounged around my cupboard looking for something to serve with the tea (normally double-stuffed Oreos). As we sat around the table, Lucy would instruct us on the proper way to hold a tea cup, with the pinky abnormally extended.
Eventually, Lucy would have to get up to check something and Rita and I would surreptitiously dump half the sugar bowl into her tea cup. The tea party would always break up after Lucy spat out her sugary tea and declared she would never drink tea with us again. This happened nearly twice a month.
But there was no tea spitting today.
One word came to mind as I looked upon Kensington Palace and sipped my tea in the Orangery:
Everything, from the tiny silver teaspoons to the little red berry on top of my custard, spoke of old-fashion sophistication.
Instead of stale Oreos, I munched on finger sandwiches, cream scones, éclairs and custards. Instead of sugary water, I sipped on orange tea with a few escaped leaves floating in the amber drink.
When I come home, I think I will adopt the British tradition of high tea. Maybe I can even convince my brother and sister to dress up in white suites and ask me in British accents if I would like cream or sugar with my tea.
Unfortunately, it’s much more likely they will dump the tea over my head and steal my éclairs after such a request. Oh well.