How to Make Your Wife’s Coffee 

You’ll want to wait until she’s ready. This might be anytime between 6:30 AM and 8:00 PM. And she’ll likely want more than one cup, but not right away, so best to make enough to save for later. 

 

Get the water going first. Fill the kettle between 3 and 4, put it back on the base, hit the switch, let the electricity do its job. Don’t put more water in—your tea will come soon enough. Her coffee needs immediate attention.

 

While the kettle is starting its initial rumble, get the French press carafe out. It should be sitting on the counter recently washed from the last cup you made her. First put in cinnamon. Don’t be shy with it. Add enough cinnamon to choke a baby. Squeeze the large plastic bulk container three or four times. The ground spice will release its vapors. See them reaching over the lip of the carafe, floating to whatever waits for us. Go ahead and sniff if you dare, but be ready for your nose to revolt. It’s early. This could be what you need to wake up. You’ve been on autopilot. Shake off sleep. You’ve got work to do.

 

The coffee? Bustelo. Finely ground, dark. You used to drink it. You introduced her to it. It would ruin your stomach if you went back to it. (Don’t worry—there’s a nice cup of Scottish Breakfast coming your way.) Three heaping spoonfuls because it’s morning. Two if it’s evening. It’ll obscure the cinnamon like a lunar eclipse. Don’t forget to swirl the carafe so the two powders mix. The secret’s in their unity. Cohabitation. 

 

By now the water should be agitated. Steam is escaping the top of the kettle. Put your cold hand over it. Feel how nice that is? It’s chilly today, even though it’s summer. Rain storms all morning. Woke the dog, which woke you. You’ve been sitting with him on the couch while she sleeps. You got some reading in, taking advantage of the quiet, the most you’ll find all day before Netflix and podcasts and Instagram videos. The book is a slog, but you felt compelled to go on with it. Near the end—why quit now? But be honest—you were happy when she sent you the text: Cafe? It released you from pretending to enjoy that book. 

 

Pour the water until it’s near the top. But not all the way. Leave some room for the angels to do their work. 

 

Now you can fill the kettle again. But be sure to ask if she’s hungry. A banana? Can do. With the coffee? Sure.

 

The tea bag should steep for as long as you like. You’ve stopped drinking coffee, but you still like strong beverages. A tea bag too soon removed is not for you. Might as well drink hot water. And her coffee won’t be ready for plunging for at least 8 more minutes. 

 

The dog is confused. Why all the back and forth when the couch was so nice? The thunder’s died down, but there’s a gloom still. Anything might happen. He’d prefer it if you stayed put, let him mold himself to you, shake a bit until he’s sure the skynoise is no more.

 

Be careful when you plunge. Too fast and it’ll be a mess to clean up. Or you might let the grounds infiltrate the brew. And maybe don’t plunge all the way. Stop short. Feel the pressure? Good. Ease up. Then maybe one last push. There you are.

 

Pour some oat milk into her mug first. Then a tot of cream. (As in “a tot of whiskey,” which is what Virginia Woolf said she drank with her friends during her younger, poorer days—just a tot because they had not.) Not even that much, though. Just enough cream to give the cup some texture. There should be less than a fourth of the mug full. Then the coffee. No need to stir. The cream has accepted the coffee. Changed it. It’s the color of her skin. Maybe a little darker. We haven’t been to the beach much this summer. 

 

It’s likely cooled, so microwave for 37 seconds. 

 

Bring her the coffee and banana. Your tea can wait another minute. What now? Something to dip into the coffee? Disgestives? Just a couple? Something for her teeth. Go ahead and roll your eyes. Maybe make a crack about how a man’s work is never done. Good house husband. Just a small joke. Don’t push it. Remember, you’ve got fuck all to do today. Except maybe some writing. And you’re always looking for a reason not to work on that. So be happy when she asks for a salad later, tells you you’re the only one who can make it the way she likes. Like this coffee. No one else. 

 

Remember when you went overseas without her? You had to write the steps down, go into specific detail. And she still said your coffee was better, even though there’s no big secret to the recipe. And she was glad you got to spend a week at a writing workshop, but you could tell she was happier that you were back to make her coffee.

 

Maybe it’s time to get started on syllabus revisions. There’s still a month before classes, but why put it off? It’s not like you have anything else to do today. Except maybe write. And you know you’ll just end up changing the dates on some old syllabus and worry about curriculum review later. Leave a bunch of TBAs on the schedule of readings and assignments. Do the students even read the fucking thing? 

 

It’s stopped storming. Take the dog for a walk.

 

And now that you’ve let the dog wander according to the dictates of his nose, now that he’s expelled feces and urine, take him home and feed him. A scoop of kibble. Then the wet food. Lamb and sweet potato pâté. The only carnivore in the house. Sneak a pill in the pâté. He’s happy eating. She’s happy with coffee and digestive biscuits. You could use another cup of tea. Earl Grey. Lapsang later. Smokey. Like the scotch you’ll drink after dinner because you’ve been good and not had a sip since last Monday. Just a glass of Riesling Tuesday and a bottle of Guinness Thursday while cooking. It’s Sunday. Rainy. Gray. The day should end with a glass of single malt, maybe after you finish reading that book, maybe after you finish some minor syllabus edits and, who knows, manage to do some writing. A celebration after you make dinner for the both of you, walk the dog again, feed the dog again. Don’t forget to do some laundry today. Nearly out of clean socks. You hate the feeling of slipping into yesterday’s socks, that weird stiffness in the sole. Your foot’s residue. You hate it. Never want to feel that again. You’re not 22. You’re not some bohemian hipster asshole. Not anymore. You have a job, one that gives you summers off with nothing to do. You no longer dream of being a published writer. You are one, even if no one reads your books. Even if they couldn’t find them if they wanted to read them. You’re not a kid anymore. You’ve seen the world and expanded the limited scope you were so sure was vast. You’ve lost weight, stopped smoking, quit coffee, quit meat, started jogging even though you don’t love it. You’re going to live longer than you imaged you would when you were 22 and fat and smoking and eating lousy food and going weeks without washing your clothes and totally fine wearing yesterday’s socks and shoes with holes and newspaper stuffed inside. All because of her. So enjoy the day and be ready to go back to the carafe and pour the cold coffee in her mug and microwave it for 1:37 exactly. Don’t forget the milk and cream.