A Story Glued

I've been dropping things a lot lately. Precious things that mean a lot to me seem to go crashing to our tiled kitchen floor (who was it that said never tile a kitchen floor?) I'm not sure what it means (such as, am I losing my grip on things?) but it is a reminder to "hold possessions with an open hand." Some wise person said that. So I've been learning about gluing pottery, but not doing a very good job at it. Seems the fingers get almost as much and it's very adhesive glue. Very.

My mother's little brown betty English teapot lid was one on the disaster list. I remember the sunny day we had tea in Charlie's tearoom. For a brief couple of years we had a little "Mitford" right there on the main street of a little town our house borders. We saw friends there. And we would linger over our tea. Charlie had all kinds of teapots lining the shelves way high up on his walls. Fun to see and all for sale. My mom bought a little green brown betty and after she enjoyed it for a few years, she passed it on to me. I have loved it's small size and it's inner strainer that holds tea leaves while they steep. And I loved its shape. So much about a teapot is in it's spout and handle, don't you think?

The glue job was not all that great. But I'm learning. And I used it this morning when I served breakfast to a tea-drinker who lives in Johannesburg (you know, tea is important in places like that). I kind of liked the fact that it was worn and tired looking and not so perfect. I think when someone serves you out of something that has been mended, you know it is a very loved piece. And most likely carrying a story.

And was I relieved that my glue job held together when on the pot of steaming tea. In a small way, my worn little teapot reminds me of a lovely post I read about an older kitchen. This young lady has a good view of things, and she writes it down very well. It's worth a read.