I approached the pharmacy checkout, clutching a bottle of moisturizing shampoo perfect for my curly blonde Irish locks. Compared to what was available at the chemist’s in my village in Northern Ireland, the selection of shampoos and just about everything else was amazing here in the States.
A woman stood at the counter, browsing the candy bins. “Excuse me,” I said, “but are you in the queue?”
The woman looked at me bewildered. “Am I in the what?”
“The queue,” I said, suddenly conscious of my thick Irish brogue. My face flushed. What’s the word they use in America?
“Um…the…the line,” I finally stammered.
I could not get out of the pharmacy fast enough. I fastened my son into his car seat and managed to hold back my tears until I climbed behind the wheel. It had been a tiny embarrassment. Just a moment of culture clash. But those moments had piled up since I left County Armagh.
When my husband, Gary, took a job as a carpet designer in Atlanta, Georgia, I thought we would have a grand adventure. Instead, the past two years had been an emotional roller coaster.
One second, I was amazed by a new experience—the taste of a fresh-picked Georgia peach, watching an Atlanta Braves baseball game on the telly—but then I’d bungle a simple interaction in a checkout line. Back home, everyone knew either me or my family. Here, I was an outsider.
How I longed for the old country… The narrow country lane with the centuries-old rock wall covered in ivy that led to my family’s whitewashed stone farmhouse. The abandoned seventeenth-century castle nearby where, in my girlhood days, I pretended to be an Irish princess. The Sunday dinners in my family’s kitchen, always cozy and warm due to the massive coalburning Aga stove.
I missed Mother’s huge pot of stout soup, her succulent roast lamb, mint sauce and roasted potatoes, her voice declaring, “There’s always room for one more at the table,” inviting neighbors or farm laborers to join us.
And Grandmother, elegantly dressed in her favorite colors, green and lilac, wearing a cameo brooch, sipping tea out of her good china. Even Dad’s well-worn jokes during dessert: “Did you hear about the cabbage that died? There was a big turnip at the funeral!”
I pulled into our driveway in the Atlanta suburbs. We lived at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac, in a large white two-story house with an inviting front porch. It was a nice house, but only that, a house—family and friends are what make a home, like the one I had always known.
My family was so far away, I hadn’t even been able to make it back for Grandmother’s funeral. And though we’d met most of our neighbors, there was no one I could call a friend. It felt like I hardly knew anyone.
How could I make friends?
I went inside with my son and set my bags down on the kitchen table. That’s when my eye was drawn to the china cabinet.
The last time I’d been back to Ireland, Mother had led me into her spare bedroom. “There’s something I need to show you,” she said. She handed me a teacup and saucer, fine white china trimmed with gold, decorated with medallions of cobalt blue and sweet bouquets of dainty yellow and red roses.
“Grandmother’s china!” I said.
“She used these back when she and your grandfather ran a bed-and-breakfast on the edge of the Irish Sea,” Mother said. “The gift of hospitality runs deep in our family. Now I’m passing it to you.”
I turned the saucer over to read the name of the pattern. My heart skipped a beat.
Atlanta.
The china had been crafted in Salisbury, England, more than a half-century ago. Yet the name Atlanta felt like it was a message intended just for me, a reminder that I was exactly where God wanted me to be.
Now I opened the china cabinet and carefully removed one of the teacups. I could hear Mother’s voice: “The gift of hospitality runs deep.” That’s why she’d hosted those crowded Sunday dinners. An Irish tradition. What if I did something similar and invited my neighbors over for lunch and tea?
Will they accept? Will they even understand my accent? I said a prayer: Lord, give me the courage to open my house…my heart…to new friends.
I put my son in his stroller and set out. It felt strange to ring my neighbor’s doorbell. I almost turned around, but then she opened the door. “I’d like to invite you over for lunch Friday,” I blurted out. “Are you available to come?”
“That’s so sweet!” she said, smiling. “I’d love to!”
The next house was easier. And the next one after that. In all, I found six women who could come. For lunch I prepared coronation chicken salad, an old family favorite made with mayonnaise and a touch of pureed apricots, originally served in 1953 when Queen Elizabeth was crowned.
“This is delicious!” one neighbor said. “You have to give me the recipe,” said another. After lunch, we had Irish tea, served in my grandmother’s good china. Warm memories of those family dinners came back—but I wasn’t sad. Instead, it felt as if my two worlds were finally coming together.
After that, I often filled my dining room with neighbors and new friends. I took Irish recipes and gave them a Southern twist—adding pecans, peaches, barbeque sauce, cola or grits. Everybody loved my cooking. People hired me to cater events. I even published a cookbook, The Shamrock and Peach.
Recently, I found a box on the front porch. Inside was a rotund blue-and-white teapot with a creamer and sugar bowl. And a note, explaining that the teapot was a replica of one created for John Wesley.
It ended with a table prayer: “May the sugar represent the sweetness of your hospitality, the milk jug your pure heart. And may the pouring of the tea be a joy as you continue to serve others around your table.”
There was no signature. I had no clue who left it. These days, though, it could have been anyone.
Try Judith's recipe for a traditional Irish treat, Sweet and Salty Caramel Squares.
Download your FREE ebook, Paths to Happiness: 7 Real Life Stories of Personal Growth, Self-Improvement and Positive Change
