It felt as though it had been ages since my wife and I had an adult conversation. We were wrangling three active boys in a Boston suburb and were constantly having to break off to intervene, redirect, or serve snacks. When the guys were asleep, we were nearly so ourselves.

One summer afternoon, we sat on the front porch watching our sons ride bikes, warning when a car approached. After a while, my wife disappeared inside.

She emerged minutes later bearing a wooden tray, spread with a kitchen towel – a tea towel! – set with two fine china teacups, a creamer, a pot of tea, and a plate of cookies. It was as refined as it was out of place – a string quartet on a subway car.

The tray was an event. We let the calm of a small luxury embrace us. We sipped. We conversed. We yelled, “Car!”

That was the first of many treasured tea times.

As my wife showed me on that summer Saturday years ago, the occasion of tea can come to you, wherever you happen to be.

My wife and I received a teak tray with raised sides and cutout handles as a wedding gift from a family friend. It was a practical gift for which we had no immediate practical use, and we stashed it with our surfeit of salad bowls (seven).

A few years later, we were wrangling three active boys in a Boston suburb. It felt as though it had been ages since we’d had an adult conversation during daylight hours for longer than three minutes. We were constantly having to break off to intervene, redirect, or serve snacks. When the guys were asleep, we were nearly so ourselves.

One summer Saturday afternoon, we sat on the front porch watching our sons ride bikes on our cul-de-sac. Our role was to referee and yell “Car!” when appropriate. After they’d settled into their play, my wife disappeared inside.

She emerged minutes later bearing the wooden tray, now delightfully transformed. It was spread with a folded kitchen towel – a tea towel! – set with two fine china teacups, a creamer, a pot of tea, and a plate of cookies. It was as refined as it was out of place – a string quartet on a subway car.

My wife set the tray down on the chipped gray wooden porch floor, and we anchored ourselves on either side of the little island of elegance, our feet on the warm brick steps.

She explained that a friend had told her that loose-leaf tea is best and that it tastes better in thin china cups. She was right. And service on good china urges one to make an effort, in the same way that dressing up makes one behave a bit better. The tray was an event. We pulled up our figurative socks and let the calm of a small luxury embrace us. We sipped. We conversed. We yelled, “Car!”