Iced Elegance: Lady Harriet’s Summer Iced Tea

Come closer, dear friend, and let us draw the curtains just enough to soften the glare of summer's bold sun. The roses in the garden bend their heavy heads, the bees drowse upon the lavender, and even the songbirds seem to hush their tunes beneath the weight of the season. At such times, the parlour fire lies cold, the crystal teapot slumbers, and one must turn with ingenuity to cooler comforts.

Though I shall never forsake the joy of steam rising from a crystal cup in autumn's chill, there is a particular delight in discovering that tea -- our constant companion -- may be transformed into a jewel of summer refreshment. Allow me, then, to share with you the story of iced tea: its surprising origins, its steady rise to popularity, and its place in my own summer rituals of hospitality.

You may be charmed to know, dear friend, that chilled tea is not as modern a fashion as some imagine. Records tell us that as early as the 1830s, tea was served cold in the Southern States of America, sweetened and garnished with citrus to soothe the sultry climate. Yet the tale most often recounted is that of Mr. Richard Blechynden, a tea merchant of resourceful spirit.

At the grand 1904 World's Fair in St. Louis, the weather was most uncooperative, for the air grew unbearably hot and visitors balked at steaming cups. Not to be defeated, Mr. Blechynden poured his samples over ice, offering to fairgoers what was then a novelty: brisk, chilled tea in sparkling glasses. The result was triumph. From that day, iced tea secured its place not merely in America but soon across oceans, carried by memory and taste into parlours such as my own.

My own acquaintance with iced tea arrived not at any great exhibition but in the shaded garden of a traveller returned from those American shores. I recall it vividly, for the day was of such oppressive heat that even my gown felt a burden. Clara, ever thoughtful, had suggested I forgo receiving guests entirely, but I was determined to keep the appointment.

When the maid appeared with her tray, I half expected the customary lemonade. Instead, I beheld crystal tumblers filled with amber liquid, slices of lemon drifting lazily like little suns across a golden sky. I confess I raised a doubtful brow. Could tea -- my beloved tea -- be rendered so? Yet the very first sip was a revelation: brisk as a sea breeze, clear as glass, refreshing beyond measure.

I recall turning to Clara, who, with her usual dry humour, murmured, 'Well, perhaps roses are not the only bloom to survive the heat.' From that moment, iced tea had a permanent invitation to my summer table.

Since then, I have devised my own method of preparing iced tea, one that preserves both the character of the leaf and the elegance of the occasion. I am fond of offering it in tall crystal glasses upon the verandah, where guests may linger amidst the scent of climbing vines. At times I scatter a few sprigs of mint upon the tray, or slices of peach for a softer sweetness, but lemon remains my favourite companion -- its brightness marrying beautifully with the briskness of the tea.

London Breakfast is the blend I most often select for this purpose, for its strength and vigour remain undimmed even when cooled. Yet one might with equal grace employ Duchess of Bedford for refinement, Ravishing Red for romance, or the spirited Rising Sun for a lively twist.

And for a touch of summer romance, allow me to recommend Peach Blush. Chilled, it becomes a symphony of soft fruit and floral notes, reminiscent of orchard air at twilight. Garnished with slices of fresh peach, it makes a captivating refreshment for garden parties -- delicate, alluring, and a little unexpected.

Ingredients

6 teaspoons Harriet's London Breakfast Tea

500 ml boiling water

Pinch of baking soda (to keep the brew clear)

175 g castor sugar (if sweetness is desired)

1.5 litres cool water

2 lemons, sliced, to serve

Method

Place the tea leaves in a pot and cover with boiling water. Allow them to steep for fifteen minutes, creating a strong, full-bodied infusion.

Strain carefully into a heatproof jug.

While still warm, stir in the baking soda and sugar (should you wish for a sweeter brew).

Add 1.5 litres of cool water and stir. Let the mixture rest until lukewarm, then place in the refrigerator for two to three hours.

To serve, add fresh lemon slices and a generous handful of ice.

Thus prepared, your iced tea shall glisten like topaz in the glass -- cool, clear, and quite irresistible.

It is one thing, dear friend, to brew iced tea, and another to present it with grace. I have found that a tray laid with crystal tumblers, a bowl of sliced lemon, and a dish of sugared biscuits offers a scene most inviting. Clara, ever fond of roses, sometimes tucks a bloom into the arrangement, its petals echoing the freshness of the tea itself.

For garden parties, I have been known to place a sprig of lavender in each glass, which lends a faint perfume most becoming in the evening light. On Sundays, when I favour nostalgia, I may offer Melbourne Moments iced, its rich chocolate notes an indulgence in the heat. For a romantic interlude, Peach Blush iced with peach slices and rose petals is quite enchanting. And when laughter runs high, a pot of Utterly Charming Chai chilled and poured over ice can be quite the surprise -- spices softened, yet their intrigue intact.

Picture it with me: a long verandah shaded by trailing vines, the sound of bees among the blossoms, and guests gathered in the soft warmth of the evening. Crystal glasses clink, slices of lemon gleam, and laughter drifts on the breeze. In such moments, iced tea becomes not merely a drink, but a symbol of summer itself -- of adaptation, elegance, and joy.

As the day fades, and Clara hums a folk tune while clearing the tray, I cannot help but marvel at the ingenuity of those who first poured tea over ice. They gifted us a tradition that allows our beloved leaf to transcend season, a ritual that proves tea is as infinite as imagination itself.