When you wake up too early in the morning and are too useless to do anything but drink tea and make something that you could literally make in your sleep, a humble tea cosy is the perfect project. Using dark fabric is a good idea because no-one will know if the teapot dribbles a bit. A double layer of cotton wadding is imperative toward keeping the tea warm. The shape is a vague dome. Fancy ones have a bit of a gusset, but this is not fancy.

I only broke two pins and a needle. I only had to pick out and re-stitch a few inches. I was lucky to have found some navy bias binding when I was tidying up a few days ago. It’s not a precise match, but it lives deep within the cosy, so no one need pass judgement on it. It was good enough for now. That’s the fun of sewing when you are tired. All those perfectionist tendencies are usually too tired to show up. Remind me to make the next one a bit wider. It fits the most esteemed teapot, but just barely.

Tea and the teapot were akin to ritual in my gran’s home, my mother’s home, and now in mine. They were both a jolly family time of ours, a snug little world that nothing ill could intrude upon. There were also times that the teapot was a call to arms, where we welcomed trouble into our midst, so that we could poke it, understand it, and proceed to remedy it.

When I inherited the teapot, it came with all the joys and responsibilities. I remember making tea for A. & G. the morning of my mother’s funeral service. In addition to dealing with our grief, we had a situation with one of the neighbors that had to be dealt with. As I was in the kitchen pouring the boiling water over the leaves, I realized that I was the grown up now, responsible for the well-being, responsible for the tea leaves. I had this brief interval to prepare my myself. It was my turn to ‘be mother.’ My back stiffened. I spoke some heartfelt words over the leaves, and returned to the tea table to dispense hot tea and lay out the plan for the day. So we have done for generations.

I must have said the right things to the leaves. We resolved the situation and we were congratulating ourselves over the washing up. When I said that we had done my mother proud that morning, I think she agreed. At least, that’s how I interpreted the sudden explosion of one of the unwashed cups still sitting on the tray.