“I do so love your serving spoon for the rice!” the elder child chirped, “Could it be… a cheese slicer? Very clever. I’ve used that to slice cheese before, so I recognize it.”
We were having an oriental tea-less party, and voluptuous consumption of perfectly tender sweet and sour chicken, made solely by the hand of the 9-year-old, had catapulted us into the best of moods. Spurred on by her culinary success, said gentlewoman arose.
“Let ME serve dessert!” she announced, and bore the empty chicken platter away.
In her absence, we guzzled fizzy age-appropriate drinks with very little flair, but mine missed my mouth and threw a wave of vanilla-y stickiness across my face and plate.
“I feel like I just went down a waterslide,” I gurgled through the trickles, and elder niece laughed and coughed.
The younger gentlewomen returned with a 5-pound masterpiece she’d baked from start to finish, and precariously unloaded it onto the center of the table with a thunk.
“You know,” said maiden chirped as she casually hacked the tiered mocha cake into eight wobbling sectors, “Medieval people used only a dagger at meal times. They had a whole pig.”
The daggar-esq knife in her hand, still mired in frosting, provided a non-too-subtle illustration for how those times may have been. She flopped the final slab of cake onto her plate, where it lay encircled in a pool of sweet-and-sour sauce.
Not the least concerned by the sauce’s spicy influence on the cake’s mocha flavor, she dug in. “Mmmmmm.” with a sigh. “This is the BEST cake I’ve ever had.”
To be sure, both additional companions agreed, and one of the best parties as well.
And so, my friends, the moral of this story (quite a true one, you may be interested to know), is that fringed napkins—tea itself, for that matter—do not a tea party make, but instead the quantity of laugher.