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July 31, 2026
People often smile when they learn I grew up in England. They imagine elegant afternoon teas, perfectly brewed pots of tea, and knowing all the proper etiquette.
The truth is a little different.
As members of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints, my immediate family didn’t drink tea, even though tea was woven into the culture around us. When extended family came to visit, the first question was often, “Shall I put the kettle on?”
My mum had beautiful teapots, teacups and saucers, little trays, a sugar bowl, and a creamer. I loved watching her prepare everything with such care.
For several years, when I was around twenty, we cared for three elderly people who lived with us. Every day we prepared elevenses and afternoon tea for them. Mum would make the tea, arrange everything on a tray, and carry it into the living room where everyone would sit together and visit.
While they enjoyed their tea, I happily drank squash—that sweet fruit cordial we diluted with water—or a mug of hot chocolate.
When I was in my twenties, Mum finally taught me how to make a cup of tea. I laugh now because by then I’d watched her do it hundreds of times.
Looking back, I realize she wasn’t simply teaching me how to make tea. She was teaching me the quiet art of hospitality.
Tea was never really the point.
It was making people feel welcome.
It was slowing down long enough to enjoy one another.
It was creating beauty in ordinary moments.
Those are the traditions that quietly followed me from England to America, even before I began enjoying herbal tea myself.
One of my favorite memories is our yearly trip to the ZCMI Christmas china sale. I was about twenty-seven when Mum and Dad decided they wanted to help me begin a china collection of my own.
Every year, just before Christmas, the three of us would walk through the china department together. We started with dinner plates, salad plates, bowls, cups, and saucers until I had a complete set for eight people. Then, year after year, we added serving platters, vegetable bowls, and all the larger pieces that make a table feel complete.
I never remember debating what to buy. Every new piece felt exciting because it meant another year, another memory, another gift from Mum and Dad. Looking back now, I realize we weren’t just collecting china. We were collecting a future filled with family gatherings that hadn’t even happened yet.
When I was around thirty-five, Dad built me a beautiful china hutch from clear pine to display it all. Years later I stained it to match my kitchen cabinets, but every time I look at it I think of him.
For years that hutch has proudly displayed my china.
The funny thing is…
I admired it far more often than I used it. Everything looked beautiful displayed on the shelves.
Safe.
Protected.
Waiting.
Retirement gave me something I didn’t expect. Time to notice.
One afternoon I realized I had surrounded myself with beautiful things that I rarely touched.
My Friendly Village china.
My mum’s blue floral bone china.
My Aunt Sylvia’s lovely yellow, gold, and white china.
They were all waiting patiently on display shelves or tucked safely inside my buffet.
And I finally asked myself…
What am I waiting for?
My mum certainly wouldn’t have left them there. She believed beautiful things were meant to be enjoyed.
She rearranged them.
Used them.
Shared them.
They were part of everyday life.
Somehow I had inherited her china but forgotten the lesson she had been living all along.
One of my greatest treasures is Mum’s teacup. It’s a beautiful Roy Kirkham teacup that my cousin bought for her while we were visiting Bourton-on-the-Water in England.
After Mum passed away, it became mine. It’s made of fine white bone china and covered with large wildflowers—forget-me-not, bilberry, thistle, buttercup, violet, and poppy. Each flower is named, which somehow makes it even more special.
If you look closely, you’ll still find the little “Roy Kirkham – Made in England” sticker on the side. I’ve tried very hard not to wash it off.
It reminds me where it came from.
It reminds me of Mum.
She drank Pero from that cup.
Now, most evenings, I fill it with my favorite herbal tea. Sometimes I enjoy another cup in the middle of the morning or late afternoon too, and every time I hold that cup, I think of her.
It’s the same teacup you’ll often see in my blog and social media photos because it has become part of my own story now.
Paul has his favorite too—a large tea mug from the white Gibson dinnerware set we received as a wedding gift. It only took us twenty-two years to begin using those dishes every day.
Sometimes I choose Friendly Village in the winter.
Sometimes Aunt Sylvia’s cheerful yellow and gold china.
Sometimes one of my delicate teacups and saucers.
I’ve finally stopped waiting for a special occasion.
Sometimes “just us” is reason enough.
One of the unexpected gifts of retirement has been discovering that ordinary days deserve beauty too.
Not because life suddenly became easier.
But because I finally allowed myself to notice it.
I spent too many years saving my beautiful things for someday.
I was afraid of breaking them.
Afraid of using them.
Afraid they might lose their perfection.
Now I’ve discovered that the memories created around those beautiful things are far more valuable than keeping them safely behind glass.
It’s funny. For most of my childhood, I wasn’t the one drinking tea. I was drinking squash while the adults enjoyed theirs.
Years later, after discovering herbal tea, I found myself falling in love with the very ritual I’d grown up around all along. In some ways, I suppose I’ve become a little more English again.
Not because I’ve mastered afternoon tea.
Not because I know every etiquette rule.
But because I’ve finally embraced the traditions that made tea feel like home.
The older I get, the more I realize Mum wasn’t simply teaching me how to set a beautiful table. She was teaching me how to build a beautiful life.
A life where people feel welcome.
A life where beauty is enjoyed instead of saved.
A life where ordinary moments become lasting memories.
I like to think she’s smiling down on me when she sees my table today.
Not because everything is perfect.
But because the china is finally being used.
Friends are always welcome.
The kettle is still going on.
And the traditions she quietly lived are still finding their way into everyday life.
I almost left those traditions on the shelf.
I’m so thankful I finally took them down.
Is there something special you’ve been saving for “someday”?
Perhaps it’s your grandmother’s china, a favorite tablecloth, or simply taking time to sit with someone you love over a warm drink.
Maybe today is the perfect day to take it off the shelf.
