It was fall. I was about to go off to university. My suitcase was all packed. “Before you go there’s something you should know,” Mother said.

I was about to say that I knew all about sex (though I didn’t, really), and that I’d be careful (I wouldn’t, really), when she said, “You need to know how to make a proper cup of tea.”

I didn’t even like tea. Back then I didn’t like coffee either. Root beer float was my idea of the perfect beverage. But my mom took me by the wrist and led me to the kitchen. “It’s just about ready,” she said, taking Grandmother’s teapot and setting it on her lap as she sat. I stood next to her, confused about the instruction. Something about a watched pot never boiling occurred to me.

“Now you hold the spout, dear,” Mother said, and she guided my hand. “Not too tight, not too loose. Can you feel the warmth?” I nodded.

“Move your hand up and down, a firm but gentle stroking motion,” she said.

I did as she asked.

“Perfect,” she said after perhaps a minute. “I think it’s done now.”

“Aren’t we going to...” I started to say. Pour it? Drink it? I wasn’t sure.