I thought I would fall in love with the city—and I did, in small ways. There were moments that felt almost magical, brief pockets of calm in the middle of everything. But what stayed with me most wasn’t any one place.

It was the contrast.

And, of course, I fell in love with our tea houses.

Each one felt like a quiet pause—small spaces tucked into a city that never seemed to slow down. For an hour or two, I could take a breath and hear myself think again. The noise outside didn’t disappear completely, but it softened.

My sister and I would sit and talk about everything and nothing. There was no rush. No urgency. Just time—something that felt surprisingly rare in a city that seemed to move at full speed all the time.

It gave us space to simply be together again in a way we hadn’t in a while.

Interestingly, my least favorite--and I still loved it--was the tea house set in the middle of a hotel, with glass walls on all sides. People stopped and watched. Every table was full. The noise level was high.

It felt more chaotic than any tea experience I’ve had.

And yet, even there, something shifted.

I realized that even tea spaces aren’t always perfectly calm. The intention is still there—but the setting doesn’t always cooperate.

Maybe it isn’t about silence.

Maybe it’s about creating a pause—even in the middle of everything.

Each morning I fixed tea in the hotel café using Bigelow black or green tea bags in standard paper cups. Nothing exotic. Nothing ceremonial. Just hot water from a dispenser and a wrapped tea bag torn open between conversations and clinking breakfast plates.

One morning, as I tossed the empty wrapper away, something caught my eye.

On the back of the packet, in small print, it read:

“Take this moment just for you.” — The Bigelow Family

Below it were the suggested steeping instructions.

I don’t know why it struck me the way it did, but it did. A tea sold in nearly every grocery store in the country still takes the time to remind us that even a humble paper cup of tea can be a moment of self-care.

As the trip continued — through Turkish hospitality, Chinese ceremony, and traditional opulence — that small quote stayed with me.

I realized something simple but steady: I don’t need luxury for ritual. I don’t need loose leaf for pause. I don’t need a tiered tray for presence.

After all the ceremony and exotic teas, a simple tea bag still held meaning.

This journey isn’t about mastering tea or chasing perfection. It’s about noticing the moment in front of me — whether it arrives on polished silver or in a paper cup.

And sometimes, it’s the paper cup that reminds me most clearly.

In a matter of seconds, I was no longer standing in my mother’s kitchen. For just a moment, I was running barefoot through the yard as a child, trying to catch those beautiful flying lanterns before darkness completely settled in.

It made me realize I hadn’t noticed lightning bugs in a very long time. Maybe they’d always been there, and I’d simply been too busy to look. I imagine that’s the case.

Summers in Ohio during the 1960s and ‘70s were special. We lived outside, and summer seemed to stretch on forever. We stayed out until the lightning bugs appeared. We stayed out until it was dark enough to play Ghost in the Graveyard. We stayed out until mothers yelled for their children to come in—and even then, we stayed out.

Of course, I’m not the first person to realize how easily we overlook the ordinary while we’re busy with life. But recognizing it for myself made it feel important again. This isn’t really about my childhood. It’s about realizing how long it’s been since I slowed down enough to notice what was happening in my own backyard.

Mornings are my quiet “me” time—especially on weekends. I love sitting on the porch with my tea, listening to the birds and watching the always-entertaining squirrels before my day begins.

Watching those lightning bugs reminded me that evenings used to be my favorite part of the day. Somewhere along the way, I stopped noticing them. I decided then and there to make a point to start spending a few minutes on the porch, enjoying the quiet and watching nature.

A few nights later, I was on the couch scrolling while the television played in the background, ‘relaxing’ after the normal whirlwind of getting my mother ready for bed, packing her lunch and breakfast for tomorrow, getting my own things together, starting a load of laundry, and feeding the cats.

Then I suddenly realized something.

I’d already forgotten to go outside.

Only a few days earlier, those lightning bugs had inspired me enough to write this essay, and already I was slipping back into my usual routine.

So I carried my tea out to the back porch.

One squirrel scampered down a tree to investigate the peanuts I’d left outside. A chickadee stopped briefly at one of the feeders. Beyond the fence, I could hear the steady traffic that never really goes away.

But there was also a cool breeze.

No television.

No phone.

Just me, my cats, and the quiet of the evening.

As I sipped my tea, one brave lightning bug drifted across the yard.

Maybe they’d been there all along.

We were a little ill at ease at first, not quite sure what to do since reservations are not available online. But, after asking if we could order tea, the woman there instantly made us feel welcome. And, over the next couple of hours, what we discovered was a tea experience where tea is truly the center of attention.

The two of us each selected a tea from a menu. A large pottery pot was brought out first filled with water that was kept hot with a flame underneath. One thing quickly became clear: the cup seemed to matter just as much as the tea itself. Next, our server brought out two trays. My tray had three clear glass vessels on it. One was a tall narrow glass with two knobs on the sides. The second one was also tall and narrow but filled with bright green, tall, narrow tea leaves. The third glass was shorter but also clear. Monica’s tray held a short, squat teapot with a very small white porcelain cup with a lid. Her tea leaves were in the squat pot

Our server explained that teacups and infusers are selected based on the shape and type of tea leaves selected to drink. Before demonstrating how we were supposed to steep our tea, she held the glass with my tea leaves and asked me to tell her what I smelled—instant anxiety: my nightmare come to life. As you all know, my sense of smell – or lack thereof – has been a source of concern for me, so to be asked to describe what I was smelling out loud to an expert…yikes. I smelled—hard. A few times. And, I finally ventured to say, “I smell grass?” I was so happy and proud when she beamed at me and nodded her head.

Our server then showed me how to steep my tea leaves. Imagine my shock when she poured the hot water over my leaves and after just 10-15 seconds, poured the tea mixture into my drinking glass. Then, after showing Monica how hers must be steeped--which was different from mine--we were left alone.

There was no music, no food served, and I also discovered that nothing was added to our tea. No sugar, milk, or honey. Nothing. Water and leaves. Peace and quiet. It was simple and gorgeous. It was also unlike anything we had experienced before.

Monica and I talked about our trip—what we had already seen and what was still scheduled. But, we also started to talk about our tea—exchanging cups, learning how to pour each other’s tea—Monica’s was a bit tricky! We had countless pots of water, and that’s what our experience was about—many small cups of tea enjoyed without distraction.

I’m not sure how long we were there just sitting and enjoying each other’s company, but we were never made to feel rushed. I’m sure we could have spent all day in that little tea shop in Northwest DC, sitting and visiting with each other over our small cups of tea.

What I realized that afternoon was that tea didn’t require tiered trays, pastries, or anything added to the cup.

Without those things, the focus naturally shifted to the tea itself and to the conversation around the table.

Small cups, many pours, and zero distractions.

It was a very different kind of tea experience—and, one I will never forget.

I love the traditional English tea, but it felt like time to discover what else was out there to experience.

As it turns out, Washington DC has wonderful options for exploring tea traditions from around the world. We planned an ambitious itinerary—traditional English teas alongside Turkish, Thai, and Chinese experiences for a total of five teas. We were excited to see how different cultures celebrate tea.

Hospitality was present everywhere we went. But in a few places, there was something more. And that made all the difference.

It didn’t take long to realize that while tea mattered, the people serving it mattered even more.

Afternoon teas can have wonderful blends and beautiful delicacies to eat, but for me, what makes one tea house stand out from another is the people.

Ching Ching Cha was extraordinary—a tiny shop in northwest DC that offers an authentic Chinese tea experience. No food is served and no sugar or milk offered—gasp! But what is present is a very attentive and knowledgeable tea server who patiently described the Chinese tea ritual and answered every question that popped up during the two hours I was there.

Something that could have felt very simple turned into one of the most memorable tea experiences I’ve had. Our server spoke about the teas and the ceremony with such warmth and enthusiasm that I felt welcomed into something meaningful—something I hadn’t expected at all.

Another stop on our itinerary was a Turkish afternoon tea in Alexandria, Virginia. On our way there, we randomly stepped into a small shop a block away that turned out to be a Turkish gift store. While browsing, we were offered a cup of Turkish tea—and cookies. We didn’t buy anything, but the hospitality extended to us was generous and genuine.

Later, during our tea at the Turkish Coffee Lady, we mentioned the experience to a young man sitting next to us. He smiled and said, “That’s how it is in Turkey—the Turkish people are very hospitable, and they love their tea.”

Inside the café, the beautiful tea service and delicious delicacies were certainly memorable. But what stayed with me most were the three women who took time to talk with us about the tea and the traditions behind it. Their enthusiasm and knowledge transformed what could have simply been a lovely afternoon into something far more meaningful.

Even the traditional English tea we attended at the St. Regis carried that same spirit. The hotel was celebrating its hundredth anniversary, and the staff spoke about its history with genuine pride and affection. What could have been simply an elegant afternoon tea became something warmer because of the people who clearly loved the place they represented.

There was nothing inherently wrong with any of the other teas we experienced. But what made a few of them stand out was the sense that we were being invited into something important to the people serving it.

For that short moment, I wasn’t just a visitor having tea—I felt included in a tradition that mattered deeply to them.

And perhaps that is what I’m discovering through these tea travels.

The tea itself is wonderful, of course. But what stays with me long after the cup is empty is the welcome that comes with it.

I know how lucky I am to still have my mother at 94—healthy, mobile, and able to enjoy being with family. That knowledge makes every holiday and milestone feel especially meaningful.

She might not remember which birthday we are celebrating. This year, she told me she thought she was 55. But she still lights up when she talks with her children and grandchildren on the telephone. Gifts no longer matter very much—although she’ll still never turn down a box of chocolates or chocolate chip cookies. What matters now is simply being together.

Tea that afternoon felt like exactly the right way to celebrate. Just the three of us, enjoying a familiar Earl Grey with scones and pastries. My mother may not understand what an “afternoon tea” is, but she understands comfort, familiarity, and being together.

Even with everything she contends with at this stage of her life, my mother’s sense of humor remains intact. When I tried to take a photo of the three of us—a moment she typically grumbles about—she waited until the last second and raised her hands to hide her face. It was exactly the kind of thing she’d do. I already know that photo will make its way into one of my albums, and that it’s a moment my sister and I will never forget.

Tea that afternoon wasn’t really about a birthday at all. It was about honoring my mother in the way she feels most comfortable—quietly, gently, and without asking her to be the center of attention.

Sometimes the quietest celebrations become the ones we remember most.

Much of our trip involved driving long distances on unfamiliar roads, often tensely, sometimes lost, and always trying to get to the next destination on time. On our way from southern Scotland to the Highlands, we passed through a series of small villages filled with shops and cafés. Monica made a mental note of several, and on one of our free days, we decided to retrace our route and explore a few more slowly.

One of our favorite stops was the village of Fort Augustus, tucked into the Highlands along the Caledonian Canal near Loch Ness. It was a beautiful day — dry, but windy and cold — and the town was crowded with tourists just like us. After wandering through shops selling tartan woolens and all things “Highlands,” we were ready to sit down, warm up, and rest for a bit.

That’s how we found Ripples Tearoom.

There was nothing flashy about it — just a welcoming space where anyone could walk in, order a pot of tea, and choose from homemade baked goods displayed at the counter. We ordered, sat down, and stayed far longer than we intended. At one point, the café briefly closed so the staff could wash dishes, but we were never rushed out. We kept talking, looking through photos from the day, and enjoying the quiet rhythm of simply being there.

Having afternoon tea in the Scotland feels different, even if the tea itself isn’t dramatically unfamiliar. Ripples didn’t serve anything wildly different from teas I’ve enjoyed in the States — no macarons, perhaps — but the scones were made fresh each morning by a local baker, and the clotted cream came from a nearby farm. Everything felt rooted in place.

What struck me most wasn’t what we were eating or drinking, but how it felt to be there. Sitting in a small tea room in a small Highland village, we weren’t participating in a novelty or checking off a travel experience. We were stepping into a rhythm that had existed long before us — one where tea was simply part of everyday life.

For a couple of quiet hours, we stopped rushing. We stopped navigating. We stopped trying to get somewhere else.

And for that afternoon, sitting in a tearoom in Scotland, we learned how to sit still.

As the trip unfolded, I realized something important. No matter the tea house, the tea was — for the most part — delicious, and the food was always good. What mattered most to me wasn’t the menu, but the memories I was making with Monica. It was the warmth and hospitality, the conversations shared, and the stories swapped that made each experience special in its own way.

I’ll always remember forgetting to remove the tea infuser from my cup and ending up with tea leaves everywhere — more than once, I’m embarrassed to admit. I remember drinking hot chocolate and eating warm apple cider donuts on top of Mount Edward, and Monica hunting for the perfect Christmas ornament to capture our trip. These moments live not only in my photo albums, but in the way we still laugh about them months later.

Driving through the mountains of western Virginia, discovering small towns full of shops, laughing and talking nonstop — that’s what I’ll carry with me from our first tea tour trip, and what I hope to repeat again someday.

We’ve already had pockets of very summer-like weather this month—which reminds me that summer and I have a complicated relationship. Ask anyone who knows me and they’ll tell you that anything over 85 degrees feels like torture to me.

Another sign of approaching summer? I’m seeing more and more posts about iced tea right now—the best brands to buy, how to make it at home, tea tasting classes focused entirely on iced teas.

I must admit, I’ve never been a huge fan of iced tea. To make matters worse, I’m a Southern girl who does not—ever—drink sweet iced tea.

I’ve noticed something about tea—not scientific mind you—but people tend to feel very strongly one way or the other. I know people who absolutely love iced tea but have no interest at all in hot brewed tea. Then there are people like me who reach for hot tea year-round without thinking twice about it.

I have a coworker who doesn’t drink hot tea at all but has a fairly complicated method every morning of brewing hot tea only to pour it over ice before work.

With all that said, The Queen’s Library serves a cold tea as a palate cleanser during tea service. And honestly? I was shocked by how much I enjoyed it.

It was refreshing, light, and wonderful.

I’ve even started buying bottles of it to bring to my sister’s house for special occasions.

Once again, tea surprised me.

I still prefer my beloved hot teas, but there is something wonderful about discovering a new experience I probably would have dismissed before I began this journey. It’s one more reminder that this little tea adventure keeps expanding my world in ways I never expected.

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My dad died three years ago, on Christmas Day. He was in his nineties and very ill, and he knew there was no chance of getting better. When he caught COVID, he refused doctors and the hospital. Less than ten days later, he simply didn’t wake up. It was peaceful, and it was exactly how he wanted to go.

After he died, I stayed on to help my mother and to pick up where my dad left off — taking care of the car, the house, and the everyday things he once handled without much thought.

After retiring, my dad had started a small business restoring classic sports cars. He loved it, but eventually arthritis made it too difficult to continue. He moved his last two cars into the garage and set up a small workshop just off to the side. That space was his — tools neatly arranged, parts carefully stored, jazz music playing, and the ever-present smell of his not-so-subtle cigars.

The garage is still full of his tools and car parts, most of it untouched since his death. No one else inherited his love of tinkering or anything mechanical. I keep the garage and his workshop clean and organized, just as he did, and over time I’ve begun to notice things I never knew were there.

A few months ago, I discovered a striking black-and-white tea mug with a matching saucer and lid. Just yesterday, I brought inside a beautiful china teacup complete with a diffuser. I’ve also found a couple of travel tea mugs tucked away among his things.

I don’t remember my dad drinking tea when I was younger, but it must have been something he picked up after retirement — when he was finally doing what he loved, on his own time. I can picture him sitting in his workshop, trying to solve a mechanical problem, jazz playing loudly, the room hazy with smoke, and a cup of his favorite tea quietly steeping nearby.

Somewhere along the way, my dad learned how to slow down and make the most of each day.

In honor of that legacy, I’ll use his tea mugs on the weekends — when I can sit, savor my tea, enjoy the quiet, and think of him doing the same.

I’ll buy a book based solely on the cover. I’ll watch a movie after a thirty-second trailer. I love nothing more than a seasonal display at the grocery store filled with items I don’t need but somehow can’t resist. Impulse buyer? Guilty.

One of my favorite shops used to wrap purchases in the cutest bags, tied with string that matched the season, and slip a piece of candy inside. Another sends oversized, beautifully designed postcards announcing their annual open houses — and every year, my sister and I wait for them like they’re invitations to something special.

Those small details matter. They make you feel noticed. Welcomed.

I’ve noticed the same thing happening with tea.

I order honey for my tea from a small company in Canada. It’s delicious, yes — but what keeps me coming back are the handwritten notes tucked into each box, thanking me for my order, along with weekly emails about how their bees are doing and what’s coming next for them as beekeepers. Somewhere along the way, I stopped feeling like a customer and started feeling like part of a small community.

Last October, I visited five different tea houses in just a few days. One of them still sends weekly emails about upcoming events. I can’t attend — they’re hours away — but if I ever find myself nearby, I know exactly where I’ll stop for tea and scones.

Then there are the tea companies themselves.

One of my favorites, Tezumi, includes a short handwritten-style note on their invoice — sometimes even written in Chinese — along with a tiny origami figure tucked into the box. Is it truly handwritten? Is the origami handmade? I honestly don’t know. What I do know is that it makes me smile every time.

Another company, Oliver Pluff & Company, packages their teas in sturdy metal canisters and includes water temperature and steeping time right on the label — information I genuinely need. Their teas are inspired by historical trade routes and blends from early American history, which, as a history lover, immediately caught my attention.

Even locally, I notice it. The Queen’s Library Tea Room sends out a weekly Tuesday Tea newsletter that not only highlights their own events, but also shares happenings at other nearby tea rooms. That generosity — the understanding that there’s room for everyone — is something I deeply appreciate. Their teas come in beautiful tins, both functional and lovely, and I find myself reusing them long after the tea is gone.

I don’t yet know enough about tea — or about the reputations of tea companies — to feel confident choosing based on expertise. And with my unreliable sense of taste and smell, I’m often drawn in by the outer details first.

But I’m learning that packaging only opens the door. It might catch my attention, make me feel welcomed, even make me linger — but I stay only if the tea itself brings me back.

For now, that’s enough. I notice what draws me in, and I pay attention to what keeps me there. And slowly, that feels like learning.

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Everything felt under control… until it didn’t.

A new teapot and kettle arrived in the mail. I switched to spring water. Christmas decorations joined the already crowded counter. And because I have a terrible habit of wandering away while my tea is steeping, I added a small timer to the mix. One thoughtful addition at a time, the counter began to feel full again.

I’m especially aware that I’m a guest in my mother’s home, and I try to keep my footprint respectful and minimal. That awareness has made me pause — not just about the clutter, but about my pace.

For now, I’m learning to embrace a bit of mess and let things feel unfinished. The disorganization isn’t failure; it’s part of the learning process. I’ve also come to terms with something important: I’ve over-ordered tea. Curiosity and enthusiasm got the better of me, and now the work is to figure out what I truly enjoy — and to order much smaller amounts as I learn.

This mess wasn’t created out of carelessness. It grew out of curiosity. And while it may take time to sort through it all, I’m okay with that. I’m still learning, and for now, that feels like enough.

I put together a simple checklist that helped me think through the process a bit more clearly. If you’re organizing your own tea collection, maybe it will help you too.

Tea Collection Checklist Pdf

35KB ∙ PDF file

Download

Download

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You’ve seen the mess I created. I’m happy to report it’s mostly under control.
I think.
Sort of.

On a recent tea at The Queen’s Library, I bought three different teas, a journal, a stirring spoon, and a wooden tool for getting honey. (Does anyone know what that’s actually called?) Did I need any of it? Not really. But I couldn’t help myself.

The teas we had during afternoon tea were delicious — all three — and I wanted to take that experience home with me.
So I did.

Wanting to learn more, I bought books about tea. Eight of them. A mix of enthusiast guides, casual reads, and one very official-sounding teacyclopedia. I’ve read three so far and genuinely enjoyed them. I’ve learned a lot. I’ll share more about the books another time.

But somewhere along the way, I started to wonder — when does curiosity tip into too much?

For me, I know I’ve crossed that line when the fun starts to fade. When reading about tea feels more like homework than pleasure. When I feel overwhelmed instead of curious.

I keep a small notebook by my tea station, meant for first impressions and simple notes. Lately, I’ve found myself “forgetting” to write anything at all. That’s usually my sign.

I want this journey to be about discovery — tea houses, rituals, and enjoying the process. And right now, buying more is getting in the way of that.

So I’m calling a small moratorium. No new tea purchases for a bit. No new accessories. I’m going to sit with what I already have, write about what I’ve learned from the first few books, and let myself enjoy things slowly again.

I had a couple of tea kettles wrapped and waiting for Christmas morning so, I decided to not count those. I’ve enjoyed experimenting with both kettles to see what works and what doesn’t work quite as I expected. I’ll report back.

For now, I’m reminding myself that tea is meant to be savored — not collected.

They aren’t closing; they’re moving. A newer, larger space about twenty minutes farther from me. In a mall.

I hesitate even writing that.

It feels like the wrong word for a place that has been cozy, familiar, and quietly special to me for the last two years.

It hasn’t been perfect. I’ve circled forever looking for parking—parallel parking, no less. Reservations around holidays could be tricky. Space was limited.

Logically, the move makes sense.

But logic doesn’t always quiet emotion.

The Queen’s Library has been my never-fail, always-comforting tea experience. I’m recognized when I walk in now—something that thrills me more than it probably should. I can sit for hours without feeling rushed. Even on a full afternoon, I’ve always felt tucked into my own little corner of the world.

This isn’t the first time I’ve struggled to let go of a place.

Just last year, my favorite home store closed. I had shopped there for years—even before I moved here. The owner and I would chat each visit, and I always left with something small and special.

I still miss that shop.

And the quiet friendship that lived inside it.

What is it about certain places that makes them so difficult to release?

I understand the practical reasons businesses close or relocate, but that doesn’t make the emotional shift any easier.

Is it the brick walls? The hardwood floors? The light streaming through tall windows?

Or is it the welcome—the familiar faces behind the counter?

On my last visit, I took a photo with Hannah, my regular server, who always seems genuinely happy to see me and who knows her teas inside and out.

Standing there, I began to wonder if the magic was never in the architecture at all.

Maybe it was always in the people who poured the tea.

I suppose I’ll find out soon enough whether intimacy travels—

or whether some places carry a kind of quiet magic that can’t quite be packed up and moved.

They never disappoint. Not once.

In the spring, though, we decided to elevate things a bit and purchased tickets to a special Easter tea at The Jefferson. With its grand staircase, marble columns, and all the holiday trimmings, it looked every bit as magical as we imagined. For this visit, I took my wardrobe choices seriously — Monica always does — and we arrived fully prepared to be wowed.

And I was wowed.

Just… not in the way I expected.

One of the biggest lessons I learned this year is simple: no two afternoon teas are alike. Not even close.

There are, apparently, rules. Both places have firm seating times, and neither allows guests to be seated early. If you’re someone who likes to arrive ahead of schedule (guilty), you’ll be waiting politely until your exact tea time.

And then there’s etiquette.

At both locations, the baked goods arrive beautifully arranged on a tiered stand — lovely in theory. I learned this year that proper etiquette suggests you don’t take an item directly from the stand. Instead, you’re supposed to lift the plate, bring it to your setting, select your item, and return the plate.

Charming idea.
Impractical reality.

Afternoon tea tables are not spacious. Attempting to maneuver a large plate without knocking over your teacup or elbowing your companion feels like a high-stakes game of Jenga. Sometimes etiquette gets you only so far.

Where the experiences truly differed, though, was the tea itself.

At The Jefferson, each guest selects one pot of tea for the entire sitting. You can request more hot water, but you’re essentially committing. Monica and I, who trade sips like middle-schoolers at a cafeteria table, managed to taste two teas between us.

At The Queen’s Library, the teas are pre-selected for the event. You’re served four different teas throughout the experience, each introduced with a brief explanation from the staff. That mini lesson — unassuming, informative, and woven naturally into the service — has become one of my favorite parts.

As a tea novice, choosing from a long menu of unfamiliar names can feel surprisingly intimidating. Having the teas selected and explained for me removes that pressure entirely. Instead of worrying about whether I’ve made the “right” choice, I get to simply notice what I like — and why.

I’ll never claim to be experienced enough to rate or rank tea houses. But I do know how an experience makes me feel. The Jefferson is undeniably stunning and well worth visiting. The Queen’s Library, though, feels quieter, more intentional — like home base.

At least for this tea novice.

I took a sip and thought, It tastes like… wine.

I remember trying so hard to detect what everyone else seemed to be experiencing so effortlessly. Was that blackberry? Maybe? Or was I just agreeing because it sounded right?

That feeling has followed me into the world of tea.

When I first began keeping a tasting journal, my entries were painfully simple:

“Subtle smell. Not sure what I’m smelling, but I like it.”

Meanwhile, tea books described “vegetal notes,” “stone fruit undertones,” “malty finishes,” and “brisk astringency.” I wanted to taste those things. I wanted to smell what others smelled. I wanted the language.

But the truth is, I’ve never had a particularly strong sense of smell or taste. It’s not the end of the world, but I suspect it’s one reason cooking has never been my passion. My mother, on the other hand, could taste a dish at a restaurant and recreate it at home. She loved that process. I’ve always admired that ability — it just isn’t mine.

And maybe that’s okay.

Tea doesn’t require eloquence to be meaningful. It doesn’t demand that I identify every aromatic family or detect precise flavor notes. Sometimes it’s enough to say, I like this. Or, This feels comforting. Or even, I’m not sure why, but this one makes me happy.

There’s freedom in releasing the pressure to perform expertise.

The more I sit with tea — without trying so hard to analyze it — the more I notice something else entirely: how it slows me down. How it anchors a moment. How it quietly becomes part of my day.

I may never describe a cup of tea in poetic detail. I may always double-check steeping times and water temperatures. But I’m learning that enjoyment doesn’t require mastery.

Sometimes tasting without words is enough.

Historically, high tea was a working-class meal, eaten at tall tables in pubs and homes at the end of the day. Afternoon tea, on the other hand, was a slower, more social affair — enjoyed seated on couches or chairs around low tables, with delicate foods and plenty of conversation. Once I learned the difference, I realized I had been doing afternoon tea all along. Who knew? I certainly didn’t.

In the beginning, I approached tea the way I approach most meals — quickly. My childhood nickname was “the vacuum,” which tells you everything you need to know. Faced with a tiered tray of beautiful food, my instinct was to eat every bite as efficiently as possible, not leaving a crumb behind.

Over time, something shifted.

Afternoon tea isn’t meant to be conquered. It’s meant to be savored. Eating a scone with clotted cream, enjoying a macaron, pausing between bites — these moments are part of the ritual. Slowing down allowed me to enjoy each tier instead of racing through them. And as it turns out, packing up leftovers is perfectly acceptable in most tea rooms. Winning an eating contest was never the goal.

I also worried, early on, about fitting in. My friend Monica loves to dress up for tea — fascinators, gloves, the whole experience. I, on the other hand, am far more comfortable keeping things simple. I worried I might feel out of place or somehow inferior.

That never happened.

Every tea room I’ve visited has felt welcoming, warm, and unpretentious. Tea lovers, as far as I can tell, are far more interested in slowing down and enjoying the moment than in what anyone is wearing. There is room at the table for everyone.

And that, more than anything, is why I’ve fallen in love with tea. Not because of the rules or the rituals — but because tea invites you to arrive as you are, sit down, and stay awhile.

I paused. How could someone like me — who still double-checks steeping times and water temperatures and is only beginning to understand the differences between black teas — be considered a tea snob? And maybe more importantly, was that something I even wanted to be?

I’ll admit, for a brief moment, a small part of me was a little thrilled. Had I ordered the kinds of teas seasoned tea drinkers usually choose? Had I unknowingly crossed some invisible line into expertise? But the larger part of me felt something else entirely — hesitation. Do I actually want that label? Is that what I’m working toward when I read tea books or visit tea houses whenever I get the chance?

I don’t think so. Learning about tea — how it’s grown, processed, and enjoyed — is genuinely interesting to me. I love talking with people in the tea houses I’ve visited, listening to their stories, and picking up small bits of knowledge along the way. But expertise, at least for now, isn’t the goal.

Now that I am well and truly a tea fan, I’ve started doing what most new tea lovers do — buying tea.
Online. In tea shops. Sometimes because I planned to, sometimes because it felt rude not to.

Along with the tea came diffusers, accessories, canisters, baskets, jars… and suddenly all of it was piled every which way across the kitchen counter. Which, as you can imagine, drove me completely insane.

Here’s the irony.

About ten years ago, I moved from Charlotte, North Carolina to my current town to help my aging parents. One of the first jobs I took after moving was as a professional organizer. I’ve always been an organized person, but that role took things a few levels up. I learned systems for organizing entire homes — kitchens, closets, pantries, you name it.

So naturally, I assumed organizing my tea supplies would be no problem at all.

What I discovered instead was this:
organizing other people’s messes is far easier than organizing your own.

When it’s your stuff — the things you love, the things you’re still using, the things you might need — every decision suddenly feels heavier. I had to slow myself down and remember the most important rule of organizing (a rule I’ve repeated to many clients over the years):

Whatever you set up has to be something you can actually sustain.

My space is limited. I have a small section of counter space and a bit of room on the island — and that’s it. No dreamy pantry. No extra cabinets. Just real life.

So instead of forcing a “perfect” system, I started experimenting.

Here’s what I’ve done so far:
• Bought a new label maker
• Picked up several tea canisters (because of course I did)
• Repurposed old jars and baskets
• Used an antique beverage carton and a wooden tray I already owned
• Purged a few teas and donated them to my office kitchen

Is it finished? Not even close.

But it’s moving in the right direction — and more importantly, it’s starting to feel usable.

I’ll share the final setup once everything is in place. For now, this is the messy middle — and if you’re staring at your own pile of tea wondering how it got there, you’re definitely not alone.

When I finally screwed up the courage to tell my friends that I was considering a blog about tea, I was absolutely stunned by the outpouring of support I received.

A dear childhood friend sent me a beautiful quilling card of a plant growing out of a teacup. An ex-teacher friend — the one who first nudged me down this path — sent me a card filled with packets of tea and a poem about drinking tea with a friend. My coworkers made me feel surprisingly legitimate by gifting me a teacup and a tea towel with my logo on them, and another offered invaluable help with my logo design.

When I finally published my first post, so many friends visited my blog and subscribed. One dear friend somehow found my post on Substack before I even sent her the link — she was my very first subscriber.

Trying new things is always daunting, and writing about them can feel even more so. What I didn’t fully consider was just how wonderful my group of friends is, and how generously they have supported me through this new chapter. They’ve made this journey feel less scary and far more joyful.

What I misunderstood before I started was how much I would need my friends — and how willingly they would show up once I finally let them see what I was trying to do.