I've been collecting Portmeirion for years. I pick up a piece here and there -- always on sale. I have bowls from the botanical and from the garden bird series. I use them for everything: soup, cereal, fruit, yogurt, pasta. On my last trip to Tuesday Morning, I found these lovely mugs and two bread and butter plates.
I'm going to brew a large pot of Assam making it extra strong. I'm going to ice it later. Yes, you read that correctly. Iced Assam. It is summer after all! Maybe I'll have a slice of blueberry bread, too. *
Garrison Keillor shared poetry by Margaret Hasse in his Writer's Almanac.
I bought EARTH'S APPETITE, a small collection of her poems and they are wonderful.
Here's an example.
AT THE TEA GARDEN
by Margaret Hasse
My friend and I mull over the teas displayed in square jars with beveled glass labeled by type. Each name seems part of a haiku: "After the Snow Sprouting." "Moon Palace." "Mist Over the Gorges." I'm drawn to green teas with unoxidized leaves that don't wither, hold their grassy fragrance like willow under snow in winter.
The proprietor offers real china for the Chinese tea. Animal bones, fine ground, give whiteness, translucency and strength to the porcelain that appears delicate, resists chipping. The rim of the cup is warm and thin.
My friend's lips are plush: her lovely mouth opens to give advice I ask for. We talk about memory of threshold events, like a first kiss or a poem published. She can't remember...
I tell her about my brother-in-law's chemotherapy—his third bout of cancer. He wants his family to put a pinch of his ashes in things he liked: his banjo, the top drawer of his desk, the garden.
I wouldn't mind becoming part of a set of bone china that serves tea in a cozy teahouse smelling of incense, cinnamon, musk, and carved teak. I'd like to be brought to a small table, sit between friends' quiet words, held in hands so close that breath on the surface of warm drink makes mist rise over their faces.