Short Story: The Teapot

I wrote this short story for an issue of an online Christian girls' magazine.

~The Teapot~

I’d never seen the little teapot before. Mom said it had come from the attic, and that it had been a wedding present. But since she and Dad don’t care for tea (they like coffee), it had been moved to the attic to gather dust in a cardboard box.

I also liked coffee. But this week my grandmother from across the country was coming to our house for the first time, and she loved tea. So Mom had hunted down the teapot. “You know, Victoria, you might like it if you tried it. You’re a lot like my mom,” she had said, setting the teapot down on the counter. Then the phone had rung, and she hurried to answer it, leaving me with the teapot.

I touched the smooth white china, running my fingers along the perfectly molded curves, and traced the spray of pink flowers delicately etched on the side. Mom had bought a box of peppermint tea for Grandma, and it sat beside the teapot now, smelling softly of mint. I didn’t really know what to think of tea, but it sounded like I’d be trying it in a few days.

Mom came back into the kitchen. “What do you think?” she asked with a smile. “It’s pretty, isn’t it?”

I nodded. “Mmm-hmm. Who gave it to you?”

“Your grandma,” she replied. “But I never liked tea much, so I used your dad’s coffee maker instead.”

“Oh,” I said, running my hands over the teapot gently. “I might like tea, I think.”

“Well, give it a try. Now come help me take the sheets off the guest bed and wash them.”

I followed her out of the kitchen, with a last look at the little round teapot.

The odor of salmon stole softly through the house, mingling with the fresh wheaty smell of the bread Mom and I had baked that morning. Water filled the little teapot, and it was ready to go on the stove when Grandma arrived. A platter of cooled lemon-glazed blueberry scones rested on the counter, waiting to be eaten with tea. Mom said Grandma loved scones, and that Grandma had been teaching her to make them since she was eight. I found that interesting, since Mom had started me with chocolate chip cookies. I had made the scones myself, and was proud of them. I liked to bake.

Mom looked pleased. Everything was running smoothly. The salmon was staying warm in the oven. The bread was ready. The house was clean and tidy.

I was happy, too, but I felt a little shy. I was a pretty confident fifteen-year-old, but I’d almost never seen Grandma. Dad had been offered a job across the country, a teaching position that he’d been wanting for a long time, so when I was four, we moved away from Montana and into Virginia. I’d almost never seen Grandma since. We did make the drive out now and then, but it was hard for Dad to get away, and for Grandpa. So this time Grandma was coming by herself by plane, and although I was excited to see her, I wondered what we’d talk about while she was here for the whole of next week.

I wandered over to the living room window, my skirt fluttering. Grandma had made the dress  for my mom when she was my age, and even if it was old-fashioned, I loved the cheerful flower print.

I looked out the window, waiting for Dad’s car to pull into the driveway with Grandma in it. Mom came over to stand beside me. “You excited?”

“Uh-huh,” I said, continuing to stare out the window. Then I saw Dad’s little blue car pull into the driveway. “There they are!” I hurried to open the door, feeling excitement and a little shyness.

Dad was opening the car door on the passenger side, and there was Grandma. She was small, just shorter than me, with pale, blond-gray hair arranged into a soft bun. She wore a sky-blue cardigan over a white shirt and khaki pants. And she was smiling, happiness shining out of every line in her face.

Now Dad was lifting the trunk and taking out Grandma’s dark-green suitcase. Mom went in front of me, saying, “We’re so glad you’re here, Mom!”

I stood shyly back as Mom hugged Grandma, who was smiling even more widely. “And this is Victoria!” Grandma said, reaching to me. “Why, you’re so tall now! And your dress is lovely,” she said, her blue eyes twinkling.

I smiled and gave her a shy hug. “Hello, Grandma.”

“Come on in, Mom,” my mom said, leading the way to the house, and the rest of us trailed behind.

I sat quietly at dinner, eating and listening intently, as Mom and Grandma talked about what was going on near us and in Grandma’s town. A family in Grandma’s church had had a baby. The teenaged boys who lived next door cut her grass for her. The neighborhood pool had had a barbecue.

I sat listening while they talked, taking in the details of Grandma’s little Western country town. It sounded nice, and more social that I had imagined for a small town. Then Grandma turned to me. “What do you like to do, Victoria?”

I looked up at her, a little surprised. “Well -- I like to read. And draw, and bake…” I said slowly.

A whimsical smile spread over Grandma’s face. “You like to bake? So do I.”

“We should bake something together,” I said impulsively. It would be fun. Mom often talked about Grandma’s perfect pie crusts, and pie crust was something I just couldn’t get right somehow.

“Yes, indeed,” she said softly.

“Let me get some tea for you, Mom,” my mom said quickly, heading into the kitchen. “You want to get the scones, Victoria?”

“Sure,” I said, and brought them in, secretly very proud of the way the glaze had cracked over the scones. I set the platter down on the table, and Grandma took one. “Did you make these, Victoria?” she asked, breaking a corner off.

“Yes,” I said, a pleased blush warming my cheeks. I selected one and broke it in half, sprinkling fluffy crumbs.

“Have I ever told you about the time I tried to bake by myself for the very first time?” Grandma asked, her eyes beginning to sparkle.

“No,” I said, taking a bite out of my scone.

“Here you are, Mom,” my mom said, setting a teacup down in front of Grandma. She lifted the teapot, and a trail of steam blew up from it as she poured a stream of rich golden-brown tea into the teacup. “Thank you, Ruth,” Grandma said, sipping from her spoon.

Mom poured a cup for me. I watched the tea trickle into my cup with a flicker of apprehension. I wanted very much to like it, but I didn’t know for sure. Mom put a spoonful of sugar into my cup, but I still didn’t know if it would taste so good. To put off drinking it, I said quickly, “What happened the first time you baked by yourself, Grandma?”

A smile bloomed on Grandma’s face like a budding flower. “Well, our church was having an Easter celebration supper. I was only nine years old at the time.” She took a bite of her scone. “Wonderful, Victoria. These are perfect.”

I smiled proudly and waited for her to continue. The teacup sat neglected in front of me, and I made no move to try the cooling beverage inside. Despite my thought that I might like the taste, I had no desire to try it yet.

“Well,” Grandma said, “We were having a supper at the church, like I said. My mother said she would make a pie, because her pie pastry was the lightest, most flaky pastry that’s ever been tasted.”

“Not as good as yours, Mom,” my mom said with a smile, nibbling her scone.

Grandma smiled whimsically. “Well, now, hers really was the best at that time. Anyway, she said she would bring a cherry pie, and baked beans. I decided I wanted to make something, so I asked Mother if I could make a cake. She said that I could try, but that she wouldn’t tell the church I was bringing something  in case it didn’t turn out all right. It was a good thing she didn’t!”

“What happened?” I asked eagerly.

Grandma took a sip of tea and continued. “I was only nine, remember, but I’m my mother’s only daughter, and I came after three boys. So I started baking and sewing with her when I was very young. I insisted that I knew how to make an apple cake and that she didn’t need to help me. Looking back, I wonder that she let me use our flour and sugar that way. But she let me alone in the kitchen the morning of the supper. It had to be early, because we were going to church in the morning for the service, and then back to the church for a special Easter service and supper.

“Well, I got up bright and early and started making my cake. I was very, very proud to making it all by myself. Did you make these entirely by yourself, Victoria?”

“I did,” I said with a grin. “But you were nine, and I’m fifteen,”

“That’s true…” Grandma said, drinking a little more tea. “Where was I? Oh, yes, I was up making the cake all by myself. I followed my mother’s recipe carefully. I checked every ingredient and every amount, and then left it in the kitchen. Then we left for church.

“It was around three o’clock when I finally managed to put the cake in the oven. My mother was very pleased with it, and I was very, very proud. When it had finished baking, I lifted it carefully from the oven and turned the pan over to take it out. Mother wasn’t around, but I had seen her take cakes out many a time, and I was confident that I could do it without her help. I wanted the cake to be done by only me. I was so excited that everything had gone so smoothly. Mother wasn’t in the room at the time, and she didn’t know what was going on.

“And then the catastrophe fell! I turned the pan over, and tapped the bottom of it to loosen the cake. Then I took the pan away and gasped in horror.”

“What happened?” I stared at Grandma in shock. Something bad had happened, clearly, and I had been expecting something bad to happen. But what was it?

Grandma’s eyes twinkled. “You see, fruit cakes are very moist and heavy. They need time to settle in the pan. I removed it far too early. A thick layer of cake stuck to the inside of the pan! And the worst of it was, it was an uneven layer. We couldn’t just glue the cake together with icing. There was no time to bake another.”

“What did you do with the cake?”

“We ate it as it was, crumbly and moist and broken. We didn’t take it to the supper, of course, we just brought Mother’s pie.”

“Did it taste good?” I finished off my scone and brushed crumbs from my hands.

“It did! And that was what frustrated me most, that if the cake hadn’t broken due to me taking it out too early, that it would have been perfect. Well, after that, I took the greatest care with fruit cakes.”

Grandma smiled and took another sip of tea.

I smiled back. I hadn’t known what we would talk about all week, but now I knew that I’d be able to ask Grandma about her childhood.

I lifted my teacup. The tea had cooled, but not so much as to be cold. Now I was ready to try it.

I sipped the peppermint tea. It was sweet, with an herbal taste, warming and comforting. It was different, quite different, from coffee, but enjoyable in its own way.

I studied the little teapot again, and traced the pink flower spray as I had done when Mom had first taken it down from the attic. The little teapot, and the scones accompanying it, had brought up a whole world for me to discover, about my grandmother’s past.

Tea was a remarkable thing.

Remember the days of old; consider the years of many generations;ask your father, and he will show you, your elders, and they will tell you.  ~Deuteronomy 32:7.