My husband is the one who makes the coffee in this house. He makes it too strong for my taste and has to water my cup for me–but who’s complaining? Every morning I get up and bustle around the house (“bustle” is the word he uses) while he lays in bed like a man-sized log. Periodically, I call out, “Honey, would you please get up and make the coffee?” The first call is at about 6:45 a.m. The reply is usually a indistinct and phlegmy, “Ah, yerumpgph. . . .”
I go on with my morning chores: fresh water for the cat, fresh towels for the kitchen and bathrooms. Sometimes I’ll even put some pots and pans away–maybe I make a little extra noise.
At about 7:00 a.m., “HONEY, would you get up and make the COFFEE?” “Yes, I was just getting up!” comes the marginally more sentient response. I pause in what I am doing long enough to ask, “Does that mean you are still in bed but you have one foot on the floor?” (I’ve checked in the past and he really does this–shades of middle school.) Good try American boy!
Now I can hear the hens fussing loudly to be let out of their coop. I need to free them before they wake the neighborhood. “I’m going out to take care of the chickens. Will you PLEASE get up and make the coffee?” Silence.
With an aggravated puffing sigh, I’m out the back door and soon get caught up in the relaxing routine of freeing the girls, throwing scratch, cleaning the coop, and pulling a few weeds.
If I’m lucky, by the time I head back into the house after refilling the birdbath, the smell of coffee is wafting out the open kitchen window. This happens on one of the good days.
Usually the daily ritual plays out something like this:
“Ke-VIN! Get out of bed and MAKE THE COFFEE!” I’m in the back hall, so I have to raise my voice to be heard all the way on the other end of the house in the bedroom–under piles of blankets and couple of comforters and the sleeping cat. (The cat is his accomplice. When Bert lays his boneless,12-pound space heater of a body on my husband, he is good for a full extra hour of sleep. Or at least that is what my boys would say when they couldn’t manage to hoist their pasty petards out of bed in a timely fashion on a school day.)
Some mornings all diplomatic efforts prove unsuccessful, calling for more stringent measures. I’ve learned that physical attacks are fruitless as most of the force of my assault goes into the mattress and surrounding bedding or is simply absorbed by the Gandhi-esque passive resistance of my spouse’s supine body. The nuclear option is my return to the kitchen and the announcement that I have some nice flavored coffee that I am more than willing to brew for breakfast. Most American men despise flavored coffee and know instinctively that the ghost of that flavor will haunt the filter basket so that the next three pots of coffee will carry the taint of that one fateful pot. This threat gets me some action.
I hear the floor creak as he finally makes an appearance, bleary eyed with his hair standing on end–it always stands on end because he cuts it very short. Having heaved himself from his freshly “made” bed, he shambles into the dining room and states, “This planet’s gravity is difficult for my people.” Or some other clever comment. But that isn’t what’s important. What’s important is that he is finally up and headed toward the coffee grinder, filter, and freshly rinsed carafe I have placed on the kitchen counter to expedite the process.
Soon the coffee maker is chattering as water boils and falls a little at a time through the grounds and on into the small glass pot underneath–and I see my husband headed back toward the bedroom! “Hey!” I call. “What are you doing? You aren’t going back to bed are you?”
“No, No, I’m just going to make the bed again. I’ll be back when the coffee is down.”
The bed frame creaks and the covers rustle as he pulls them neatly up to his chin to catch a few more winks. Begonia