Blogger Spotlight

Blogger Spotlight: Barb at “Barb Taub”

Barb is one of my digital friends that I now interact with on a quasi-regular basis, but I no longer remember exactly how we found one another. I suspect that she managed to stumble across me in one way or another. This is not to say that I am some beacon of brilliance, blinking steadily in the literary darkness, but rather that I’m not the kind to go out and find new contacts on my own. I’m the wallflower who timidly waits for people to ask me to dance. (To be fair, some people might say I’m the vampire who must be asked in before I show my fangs. I suppose there’s a bit of truth to both angles.) But enough about me.

The first lasting impression I have of Barb (okay, maybe a little bit more about me) is one of her pieces entitled “The Day I Killed Mom”. It’s a witty yet touching remembrance concerning a difficult situation that many of us have faced or will soon be facing. The delicate balance of warmth and pain and humor and bravery-when-needed is very satisfying. I was quite glad that Barb asked me to dance, and I’m not leaving the ballroom until the music stops playing.

But that’s not the piece I’m featuring today, although there is a nifty little link below. Instead, I’d like to focus on a more recent story. Barb is apparently quite popular in certain circles. She has millions of followers, she has apparently written hundreds of books, and she is considered royalty in the country where she now lives. (Some or all of the preceding sentence may or may not be entirely true.) In any case, an incident arose in Barb’s life wherein beverage etiquette played a major role. And that’s the story I’m sharing today. Enjoy. And don’t be afraid to ask for seconds when she comes around with more tea…

 

Fifty Shades of Earl Grey

A friend who was visiting from America put a teabag into a cup of water and stuck it in the microwave. As I was explaining to her all the ways that was wrong, I mentioned that I accidentally committed a tea party once. A real one, with cucumber sandwiches and a proper aspidistra.

british-porn

My last tea party

My last tea party

 

Of course, I’ve attended other tea parties. But the guests tended to have names like Mr. Bear and Miss Dolly. So when the friend who owned the castle I was living in suggested we do a proper afternoon tea in support of our annual village charity, I had to remind her that as an American, I’m tea-impaired. I had already been living in her medieval castle in the north of England for a couple of years, but all I really knew about tea at that point was the following:

  1. Builders Tea: so called because anyone – but especially builders – who comes to your house to do any sort of job will be physically incapable of completing their task until they have demanded, received, and consumed at least one cup of black tea. They will also expect biscuits, but relax. Although everyone I knew when we lived in Virginia would shudder, this does not mean fluffy, buttery rolls. It doesn’t even really mean cookies, at least not in the American ginormous-chocolate-chip-and/or-nut-crammed-cardiac-event-waiting-to-happen sense of the word. Pretty much any flat carbohydrate will do nicely here.tumblr_mdpvo7VZqk1rnron6
  2. Tea-time: any late afternoon time between three and six o’clock when you might try to drive somewhere but can’t because of the tea-time traffic, try to contact a business but can’t because of their tea-time break, or try to talk to your builders but can’t because they are in my kitchen drinking tea-time black sludge. With biscuits.
  3. Tea-menu: tea plus teeny little bits of bread or scones with butter and jam. NOT jelly, because here in England that’s the name for the gelatinous substance you put into ice-cube trays and make into vodka shooters. (Since, here in England, you’re never going to need those trays for actual ice, of course.)
  4. Cream Tea-menu: #3 plus clotted cream, one of the great taste inventions ever. (Sadly, however, minus the vodka shooters.)
  5. High tea: something they only have in posh American hotels where they try to sneak actual food onto the tea menu.
    Tea parties for pets? How is that a thing? Even in England?

    Tea parties for pets? How is that a thing? Even in England?

  6. Tea without Tea: When I picked up my dog from the kennel, I was assured that she had already finished her tea. Apparently anything consumed late in the afternoon qualifies here, and actually her dogfood probably tastes better than most tea biscuits.

But really, I asked my friend, how hard could it be to slap a teabag into a mug of hot water and add a couple of biscuits on the side? She turned pale, and decided we’d need more people. A week later I faced the Tea Party Committee. The Committee was polite. The Committee was firm. The Committee was not going to let me anywhere near actual tea-making. The castle where I lived was about a thousand years old, but the latest round of renovations dated to Victorian days. So The Committee decreed that our tea party would have to be a proper Victorian presentation: bone china teacups, linens, and tiny cloth napkins. We would need waitresses in white aprons and little caps pushing properly-squeaky trolleys (serving carts). We would need a pianist. And, of course, an aspidistra to put in front of the piano. And most of all, we would need teapots. Lots of teapots.

What Tea is not: Iced. Especially not Long Island Iced Tea. A darn shame, if you ask me...

What Tea is not: Iced. Especially not Long Island Iced Tea. A darn shame, if you ask me…

Luckily, I was able to give them good news about my sandwich research. There is now a Costco nearby, and they would do us up trays of hearty sandwiches – roast beef, ham, turkey, cheese – on a variety of breads. The Committee looked a bit shaken, but stayed strong. No meat could contaminate our tea. Sandwiches must be made from cucumber so thinly sliced that one would probably serve the hundreds of people we were expecting. The only other sandwich choice would be egg and mayonnaise. Plus we’d need lots of scones.The Committee eyed me dubiously. Sadly, most of them were victims of my earlier scone attempts when it was my serving turn for Village Coffee. They decided to solicit contributions from their more reliable village bakers. In a generous moment of reconciliation, however, they did grant me permission to bake hundreds of mini American muffins (cupcakes) for the pudding (dessert).

The Committee had me on the ropes, but I came back strong. “What about flowers? Should I order those?” The Committee looked like I’d suggested putting murdered puppies on each table. “BUY flowers? In summer? As if our village couldn’t even garden? O the shame!

I spent the next weeks scouring eBay and local charity shops for china tea cups, and going to the sixty or so households in our little village to borrow teapots. In an amazing burst of generousity, the scones, tablecloths, napkins, and offers to help rolled in. The day before, people showed up with massive armloads of flowers and arranged them. The piano was tuned and aspidistra installed. Tables filled the castle ballroom, each with a linen cloth. The teenaged waitresses we’d recruited eyed their little white caps and lacy aprons with horror, but—English girls are so well brought up—each put hers on, at least for the photos. And, miraculously, we had almost fifty teapots, in which, the Committee informed me firmly, I would NOT be permitted to make any tea. They figured the place I could do least damage was showing people to their table.teaparty with aspidistry

And the people came! They bravely consumed gallons of tea, cheerfully tucked into microscopic sandwiches, and dutifully purchased extra ‘puddings’ from the cake stall. In the end, we raised respectable amounts for our charity. But better still, I know where all those teapots live and I’m so ready for the next tea party.

 

 

 

 

 

You can peruse more of Barb’s work by clicking here. If you have comments specifically for Barb, please be gracious enough to make them on the original post found here so Barb can be assured of receiving your feedback.

As mentioned, the link to “The Day I Killed Mom”.

Personal Note to Barb: I was unable to get this post to format in the clean and charming manner that you did with your original. This means that you have WordPress skills that I do not possess, and that means I must study abroad in your queendom in order to learn more. Please prepare accordingly…

 

19 replies »

  1. “She has millions of followers, she has apparently written hundreds of books, and she is considered royalty in the country where she now lives. ” Um… that royalty thing was just because I picked “Lady” as my title on British Airway’s drop-down ticket purchase screen. (And okay, the rest of that sentence is less than accurate too.)

    But I’m SO grateful to you for the incredibly flattering reblog. Mwa! And I’d be absolutely delighted to have you come to Scotland for intensive tutoring. August would be good, although I must warn you that on the (blessedly rare) occasions that the temps on our little island make it out of the 60F-range, it’s ‘taps-aff’ (tops off), exposing truly disturbing amounts of pink flesh. You’ve been warned…

    Liked by 4 people

    • Well, for now, I’d like to maintain my delusion that you descend from an ancient royal line. This will inspire me as a pack my steamer trunk, take online courses to learn how to speak Gaelic and Tea, and ponder how I can change my alabaster skin to the advised pink flesh so I can participate in my proper share of taps-affs…. 😉

      Liked by 1 person

      • Actually, the only Gaelic you’ll need is slàinte (or perhaps slàinte mhath—’good health’) when we suck down some fizz or a G&T, or better still some Arran beer or whisky (note: no ‘e’ in proper Scottish malt). Your alabaster skin will fit RIGHT in, and with a wee bit o taps aff, will be lobster pink in no time.

        Tea, however, remains a sacred right and duty, and will of course require proper education and ceremony.

        So get to work on that steamer trunk!

        Liked by 1 person

      • Your “descend from ancient royal line” reminded me of a former colleague who was obsessed with both religion and genealogy. He was over for dinner, and going on about how he just had to document one final ancestor, and then he could trace his roots all the way back to Adam and Eve. My daughter, who had been listening wide-eyed, replied, “I thought EVERYBODY could do that.”

        Liked by 1 person

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