Country English Cream Tea

There simply aren’t words to express my love for English tea. The thought of it brings ebullient gratitude bubbling up from my heart and sometimes bubbling heartburn. For me tea time describes not a cup of something or a meal or a time of day, no, it describes nothing less than a cultural institution that includes a lot of whipped cream (English clotted cream) and jam at venues from Buckingham Palace to the quaintest farm.

Those of us who live in countries that do not enjoy English tea time are bereft of a culinary and social passion enjoyed alone by Britons and Anglophiles. Seriously, on rainy days when I feel like crying the romantic side of my nature desires nothing more than to be buried at the feet of George Frideric Handel (an English composer despite what you might think) with a scone and a cup of tea tucked in beside me. 

In my tea time fantasies I do not pine for an effete linen cloth, my pinky finger curled daintily above the delicate curve of a perfectly painted china cup filled with a fragrant brew of Assam. Nor do I long for the village tea shop with violet blossoms on gingham curtains and fluted plates. No, my passion is for the Shropshire country-side tea advertised on hand painted sandwich boards at the end of a farmer’s drive advertising “CREAM TEA” .

Once I finally got back to England it was necessary to journey to the country-side for my long awaited tea party. When I got to my favorite spot I steered the car onto the muddy, rutted track and headed for the big old barn that needed paint. Parking nearby I heard 13 noisy suckling pigs rooting and snorting on their enormous momma sow. There was a barnyard stink that dissipated as I headed for the clothes line where the day’s laundry was flapping in the breeze near a rustic picnic table with a view of the duck pond. I sat to enjoy the gentle English sun on my back.

Presently the farmer’s wife came out of the 18th century farmhouse in a soft apron with a bib. “Cream tea for one please,” I ask cheerily as I noticed her hands looked terribly rough and red and I imagined she served tea and sold piglets to raise enough money to paint the barn. “Ah yes,” she said, “That’ll be homemade strawberry jam and clotted cream ’n scones for you then?” 

After she retreated I shifted my gaze to the water and noticed an efficient looking barnyard duck quacking at her ducklings who were swimming all over the pond. They began to leave the water and scurry up the embankment on their tiny webbed feet and one by one dove under her breast for nap time. Before my tea arrived the mother was sitting on a yellow pile of fluff six inches off the ground and I learned she was the broody mom for a dead-beat duck who ditched her clutch.

Ahhhh! My tea tray arrived and was a visual feast of Old Country Roses by Royal Albert, a full steaming pot, a heaping bowl of clotted cream, a small saucer of fresh strawberry jam and a plate of four homemade scones. I tucked in and finished everything off.

Deeply satisfied back in the car I popped in my CD of “Music for the Royal Fireworks” by Handel, belched and headed back to town.

Copyright © 1027 Gayle Madison