The Inheritance of Sentiment

Between my husband and me, we’ve inherited three tea sets, none of which have ever been used or will be. Nor will they be given away or sold; very likely, our son will inherit them.

Mine’s a tea set that includes a teapot, creamer, sugar bowl with six cups and saucers. It’s in dull pink with a thin gold rim, gifted to my parents on their wedding by a friend. I knew and was rather fond of this friend, and so when my mother, in an unsentimental rush, started giving away heirlooms, I claimed this tea set. It sits in a box, in bubble-wrapped protection, while I figure out where to display it in my minimalist-themed home.

Then there’s the blue and white tea set with the squat pot, a short creamer and a fat sugar bowl. It’s pretty, delicate, eminently breakable and belonged to my mother-in-law. Maybe there’s a story there, but I’ll never know.

But the one that occupies pride of place, that’s part of my recurring nightmare in which I watch the whole set drop to the ground and break noisily, is the Wedgwood Woodland Pink tea service bought by my mother-in-law in London sometime in the ’70s. She managed to transport the entire set to India with no casualties. It’s beautifully English, not in production anymore and a real collector’s item.

My morning cup of tea is best enjoyed in a red polka-dotted mug that I found in my house soon after I got married and moved in. It’s clearly a remnant of a larger set of which nothing else has survived. I don’t know where it comes from or how it got here. It’s chipped at the rim, and I don’t even like it very much. But importantly for me, it holds a generous amount of tea – just a bit more than standard-issue tea mugs.

Now, this is the one I will guard more carefully than the rest.

Originally published on Still Steeping, the Teabox blog, on July 15, 2015. Lightly edited for clarity in October 2026.