Much To My Delight

Much To My Delight


This is Laziness. But this is also Love.

 

This weekend we painted for two days straight. Our upstairs apartment is back on the market, and the previous tenants dinged and bruised every square inch of wall on the way down. Friday night we tackled the bedrooms. I picked out a lovely, subtle shade of very faint gray.  I hope the new tenants are fond of their new light blue sleeping quarters.

Saturday morning we bought more paint and brushes and a bag of bagels, then I put on a big pot of coffee to share with Vin’s father, a man who says very little but always helps us a lot. We taped and edged and rolled for hours until every inch of the living room and front hallway was covered in a ridiculously crisp white. I’d asked for “the most popular shade of white” at our paint store, and apparently the people in our neighborhood eschew soft creamy shades in favor of a blinding institutional glow.

Sunday morning I had intentions to hit the gym and the grocery store before nine, but instead hit snooze for two full hours. My back ached, my legs wobbled and even my knuckles felt sore. I felt like an old dog, tired down to my bones. Breathing in paint fumes for two days made me groggy and lightheaded. I woke up at 8, and stumbled to our windows to open the dated vertical blinds we still haven’t gotten around to replacing. The sun sucker punched me, right in the eye. I let out a whine like a cranky child.

All I wanted was coffee because all I ever want is coffee.

good coffee

I’m one of those people who normally spends 20 minutes grinding whole beans and pouring hot water over fresh grounds through a funnel. There’s a whole meditative ritual behind it, watching the liquid drip through the paper and into the carafe, but in those moments when you really just need to mainline caffeine that whole rigamarole is too high-maintenance. That’s why a traditional drip coffee maker will always be welcome in my home.

But that morning, my laziness hit an unprecedented peak. I was too tired to make my own coffee– pour over or otherwise. I rang a little bell, hoping the butler might fetch me one. No one came, of course, so I hauled my tired ass to the upstairs apartment to get my coffee maker. It was still half full from the day before. I considered it a sign to take it easy, and against (anyone’s, everyone’s) better judgment, decided to reheat my day old coffee instead of making a fresh two cups.

I searched my kitchen for a pot because as much as I was willing to lower my standards, even I was too good for microwaved day-old coffee. Suddenly I remembered that my small pot was in the fridge holding Thursday night’s chili; I should have transferred it to Tupperware, but never got around to it.

So I did the next best thing and poured the cold coffee into a saute pan. I was totally out of Half and Half (WHY GOD WHY?) so I poured a thimble of two percent milk into the saute pan, then showered a teaspoon of saigon cinnamon over the top in my attempt to be civilized.

I cranked up the flame and when it came to a respectable temperature I poured it into my mug, where a nasty milk film spread like a virus across the top. I took a sip and began to gently weep.

“It’s still coffee,” I muttered under my breath, trying to convince myself that things weren’t so dire. I finished the whole appalling mug while laying across the couch in mismatched socks and a white chenille robe surfing instagram with the kind of dead eyes you only see on a child playing Minecraft. I could not recall a time I felt so out of it, so completely opposed to movement or productivity. I realize that the parents among you have likely synchronized your eye rolls at my dramatics. That, or you get me. You really, really get me.

Finally, Vinny woke up and stumbled into the living room in his boxer shorts. He wiped the sleep from the corner of his eyes and asked me how my morning had been.

“Not great,” I said. “I feel totally wiped and I was so tired I didn’t even feel like making coffee.” I raised my sad cup of day old dregs to show him how far I’d fallen from grace. “I reheated yesterdays’ coffee in a saute pan and it was awful.”

“Do you want me to get you a cup of coffee?” he asked. A crown of heavenly light beamed around the circumference of his head. I bit my lower lip as I struggled not to cry.

“You would do that for me?” I asked. I acted like we live on a remote prairie and he’d offered to ride into town on a buggy to get me just one thing. It felt like the kindest gesture in the world.

Now’s a good time to tell you that we actually live across the street from a 24-hour deli. It is literally seven seconds from my home, door to door. They sell half & half there, as well as ready-made coffee. The idea of putting on a coat and shoes and walking across had been too much to bear. And so I waited a few hours for my husband to wake up so he could make the trip.

He put on his shoes and was out and back in less than a minute. I put the paper cup to my lips and let the liquid warm my mouth and stream down my throat. It was lukewarm and sharply bitter, an absolutely terrible cup of coffee. But I drank the whole thing anyway,  because his gesture had been so sweet.

 

Jenn P.

30-something psychotherapist. Loves cooking, hosting parties, exploring new places. Texan by birth. New Yorker by choice. Likes to tell little stories. Pull up a chair; I'll tell you one.

  • Rosemary
    I’m so glad you’re back! Couldn’t comment on the previous post but I wanted to ask if I can buy the pre-sale for your book! Good luck! Post link lol