My Cup of Tea

I am in the Appalachian Mountains, in a cabin deep in the forest, near the city of Asheville, North Carolina. Today, I wanted to explore the city. I walked into a tea house decorated with engravings, wooden carvings, and delicate porcelain cups. I couldn’t help but think of my grandmother Sofía and our afternoons together on the farm, in a wood-fired kitchen so different from this place, but where I first learned that a cup of tea could also be a refuge.

Preparing Tea with my Grandma

When I was about five or six years old, I loved preparing the tea with my grandmother. First, we made the blackberry jam: we would go to the garden to pick the largest, darkest berries, taking care not to prick our fingers on the thorns. We would enter the dark, wood-fired kitchen, washed them and put them in a pot, crushed them gently with a fork, added sugar, and stirred slowly with a wooden spoon. We knew it was ready when we could draw a path with the spoon in the middle of the pot, and it took a moment to close again.

Then, I sat at a rustic wooden table while she heated the water on an old electric burner. The kitchen was huge, with very high ceilings; on the left, there were two stoves with side holes where firewood was fed. At the back, a large granite sink with an iron faucet stood, and on the right, the electric burner and a counter covered with white tiles.

Through small windows set high up near the ceiling, a pale light filtered in. The walls, painted with a mustard yellow color, were peeling from years of dampness and smoke. While the water boiled, I would place a cold ball of butter between two small, grooved wooden paddles, and my grandmother, with great skill, would turn it into tiny, shiny, yellow curls. Then, I would carefully transfer them to a bowl of ice water so they would harden and retain their shape.

My grandmother would pour the steaming water into a white porcelain teapot decorated with small green ivy leaves, and we would carry it to the dining room on the other side of the house. I was the only granddaughter, so I was in charge of setting the table: napkins and forks on the left, knives on the right, teaspoons above the plate. The china matched the teapot’s design, and I would set the plates and cups carefully, trying not to break them.

My Grandfather Toasts

Then, my grandmother would call everyone to the table by ringing a small copper bell. Once we were all seated, she would bring out my favorite treat: a sweet banana cake with a creamy, caramelized topping decorated with slices of banana. My grandfather was the one who toasted the bread in his electric toaster, the kind where the slices popped up when ready. All the grandchildren, in order of age, waited eagerly for our turn. I was one of the youngest, so I always got mine last: I would take it to my plate, sit down, inhaling the smell of the warm bread, place a tiny curl of butter on top that melted instantly, spread the sweet-and-tart blackberry jam, and bite into it slowly so it would never end.

Today, sitting in this tea house in Asheville, I find myself holding that same imaginary cup from my childhood. Each sip reminds me that, even though my grandmother’s kitchen no longer exists, her tenderness still lives inside me, like this warm tea in my hands, comforting me in silence.