Reflections on the Eleventh Week of Summer – Tea Party for Two

Glass Kettle - photo by Charlie

    Three weeks ago, while we sat to let our breakfast digest, Spence squinted at his computer and said. “Our son is up to something. Now he wants to know where your quilt guild dinner is being held on Wednesday.”

    “At Dawndi’s in Franklin.” Since I couldn’t ask Charlie, I peppered Spence with questions. “Why does he want to know? Why didn’t he ask me? Why did you say ‘now’?”

    Spence grinned the grin which I translated to because he didn’t want to deal with your questioning assault. “The other day he asked if you could eat eggs.”

    I pressed my lips together so the next questions, why is he checking on my darn food sensitivities and how do eggs go together with a restaurant outing, didn’t escape.

    Charlie had always been a thoughtful, creative youngster, like turning an eighth grade English assignment into a gift collection of butterfly poems and pictures for me. In the dedication, he said it was to remind me of my childhood–no doubt because I’d told him so many stories of playing butterfly games with my Uncle Bill.

    The egg and restaurant questions puzzled me for the next two days.

    The afternoon before the quilt dinner while I trimmed half square triangles for friendship stars, the phone rang and I got the answers.

    “I wanted to invite you to a tea party this week,” Charlie said. “Your only free time was today, but I didn’t think you’d want to drive to Seneca for the afternoon, drive home, then drive back to Franklin for the quilt dinner. So I guess the tea party will have to be next week. You’re pretty open then.”

    He must have checked my Google Calendar.

    “Which day do you prefer?”

    I picked Wednesday, August 23.

    After his call, I walked on tiptoes and giggled because excitement bubbles circulated through me. I checked my closet for an appropriate tea party outfit.

    Charlie emailed around noon the Saturday before the party.

Charlie: Email me your frosting recipe. Decided to put off the next cooking experiment until later.

    I sent my Betty Crocker Double Boiler (7-Minute) Frosting recipe.

Charlie: Don't have a double boiler or a hand mixer–just two stand mixers and a whisk attachment. Okay. Will continue to think on it…

Me: We have two double boilers and a hand mixer that I only use to make that frosting. You're welcome to borrow them.

Charlie: Or I could buy them. Or you could make the frosting.

Me: DON'T buy them. I'd be glad to make the frosting.

    Wednesday, I dressed with care–olive green slacks, black with pinkish-red roses blouse, and a pink butterfly the guild president made for quilters attending the dinner. Carrying a box with double boilers and the hand mixer, I climbed the stairs to Charlie’s Seneca Woods apartment, admired the string of Chinese cat faces decorating his door, and knocked.

    Charlie answered with a broad smile and glowing cheeks. “Good to see you.” He took the box. “I thought you’d make the frosting at home.”

    “It’s better fresh.” Actually, I didn’t want to transport sticky frosting.

    He led me to his kitchen and grabbed a bowl.

    I hoisted my keister onto his tan velor bar stool.

    He scooped flour, measured sugar, and added a splash of almond milk. “I checked English tea recipes online, but all the sandwiches had ingredients you couldn’t eat.”

    My dairy-free, soy-free diet does complicate food choices. At least I could eat gluten.

    He cracked an egg against the sink and deftly dripped the insides into the bowl. “So when I found a pancake recipe you could eat, I experimented with adding sugar to make it taste like cake.” He mixed the batter and set silver cupcake liners into his cupcake pan. “I think I got the proportions right.” He poured batter into seven liners and shoved the pan into the oven.

    All that research for me. And he’d gotten the cupcakes into the oven within five minutes of grabbing the bowl. I’d done okay raising this boy-man.

    When the cupcakes cooled, he set his phone for seven minutes to time me beating the sugar, egg white, and cornstarch we substituted because he was out of cream of tartar. We frosted the cupcakes, then he ushered me into his living-dining room.

    “This card table is new,” I said and sat in a captain’s chair.

    He called over his shoulder on his way back to the kitchen. “I got it at Goodwill.”

    Water gushed. A moment later he returned carrying an electric glass kettle. He set the kettle in its stand on a corner of the table, plugged it in, and headed back to the kitchen.

    Splashing sounds from washing dishes drifted into the room.

    The kettle filled with mist, the mist cleared when water bubbled, then blue light glowed–as entertaining as watching a fire burn in the wood stove.

    When he returned, I said, “Your kettle is awesome.”

    Charlie grinned. “I thought you’d enjoy that.” Opening an infuser, he spooned in Bliss, a tea made from organic wild rooibos, strawberry, and lavender. He dropped the infuser into a tea pot and poured in the hot water.

    He made two more trips to the kitchen. First he brought back thick glass tumblers. “I like drinking tea from these, but I can get you a mug if you prefer.”

    I didn’t.

    Then he brought the cupcakes, and the tea party began.

    I sipped fragrant tea, nibbled the moist, just-sweet-enough cupcake, and delighted in the company of my grown son. We leisurely discussed his work, my swimming, books we’d read, and the new furniture he’d acquired before a pause fell in the conversation. Determined not to fill it with questions, I said, “You’ll never guess my new job.”

    “New job?”

    “I’m going to be a township auditor. Yesterday, when I was sewing with Peggie, a friend from the quilt guild, she talked me into taking over for her because she’s so busy. There are three auditors. We meet several times in January and February at the head auditor’s house across from Bruce Swogger’s Auto Service.

    Charlie’s eyes sparkled. “You’ll have to turn the job into a Midsomer Murders  mystery.

    I jerked into straight, yoga-seated posture. I didn’t write mysteries, but the Erie Pennwriters group suggested I try one for my next story. “One of the writers in the Erie group did have a minister kill an auditor who discovered the minister had been smuggling funds from the church to support her drug habit. She shoved the body into a car trunk and abandoned the car in an auto dealer’s lot.”

   Charlie beamed and bounced in his chair. “Perfect. You can hide the body in one of the cars on Bruce Swogger’s lot. It’s right across from where you’ll be working. Drive the car away to dispose of the corpse, which is the messy part of the story, then return the car to the lot.”

    We laughed.

    Driving home in my Subaru, I relived the tea party from cat hanging greeting to belly laughs over a story plot. When he was a youngster, I cut and frosted cakes into the shapes of R2-D2, a race track topped with miniature cars, and a castle with turrets for his themed birthday parties.

    Now he’s creating parties for me.

Cats - photo by Charlie