I love my cup of tea. The simple ritual of it, filling the kettle, the brief wait for the boil, the unwrapping of the teabag (unless you are a real stickler and use actual tea leaves!), the water turning a shade of delicious amber ... coffee is great and has its place, but for comfort nothing approaches the cuppa.
Doesn't much matter if the kettle is modest, or even dented. In my dreams, however, the Windsor Kettle from Stonewall Kitchen reigns supreme. Shown here in chrome, it also comes in the classic copper, which looks like something straight out of Tasha Tudor's kitchen.
I have undertaken an early Spring cleaning/purge (very sloooowly, best not to upset the routine). Said routine is haphazard at best, but I try. In a completely tidy and organized room I find myself flailing in a sea of correctness. Where are the stacks of books! The paper from three Sundays ago? The little pools of spare change I might just need one of these days? Too perfect is not for me.
I used to own a couple of scented books of poetry and prose published by Penhaligon's (maybe they are probably still up in the attic somewhere). Yes, scented books! Full of lovely words and paintings. Not surprising, given how unbelievably beautiful the Penhaligon perfume bottles are. Here is an example:
This is rapturously pretty! I love it. Even if it is terribly old fashioned. Oh let's be honest, because it's old fashioned!