Whatever Happens, I Make Coffee First

And why is the neighbor’s spotlight on, again?

I get up, and the sky is still dark. I look out the bathroom window, to check on the moon and stars. Where are they? And why is the neighbor’s spotlight on again, spoiling my stargazing with blinding light?

Next I hobble downstairs to the kitchen—my feet still asleep, figuratively speaking—and turn on the kitchen lights. My husband left for work long before dawn, so I am alone.

Our fancy but not-thousands-of-dollars-fancy espresso machine is already set up, ready to produce. I hit the button twice. And out comes the elixir of life.

Each morning is ripe with potential disaster. Maybe I heard the cat vomit in the wee hours, and I can’t find it. I notice a late-night message on my cell phone, or sense an impending violent thunderstorm, cracking and booming close by. Sometimes I simply wake up with that panicky feeling: What the hell am I doing?

I’m not by nature a scatterbrained or distracted person. I wouldn’t describe myself as someone who has “post-menopausal brain fog.” And yet, lately I have to remind myself to focus, because otherwise I end up making three trips to the basement, each time standing there wondering What was it? What was I supposed to get down here?

I tell myself—make coffee first. Drink some.

Like putting on the oxygen mask in an airplane—

Or pulling the release on a parachute—

Or buckling your seat belt—

Do one thing at a time, and the primary thing to do first thing in the morning is SAVE YOURSELF.

For Christmas this year, my sister gave us a six month subscription to delicious coffee beans from all over the world. The latest pound is from Vietnam. The packages come with beautiful printed information about each month’s selection, including a tantalizing photo from the country of origin, and a description of the nuances of the beans, and the why and how of where they are grown.

For Vietnam, the information states, in part: “In 1857, French missionaries planted coffee in Vietnam’s central highlands, sparking a transformation that would reshape the nation’s agricultural landscape.”

This sentence is a master class in how to talk about history without talking about history. I know the interaction between European missionaries, indigenous agriculture, and coffee plantations was much more complicated than this succinct description suggests.

And here I am, 8,500 miles from Vietnam, and 168 years removed from those French missionaries, calmly drinking coffee from Southeast Asia and watching the sky begin to turn from ink to orange and gold. I think lightly on the complexity of trade, transport, commodity, and conflict. I can’t parse all of it first thing in the morning, before the elixir takes effect.

On the other side of the house from where I look for stars, the sun rises over the river. Each time I see this, I think It still works—the sun comes up every day—and I get to see it. It’s my mantra, my reminder to be grateful, and a sign that I will overcome any day’s distress. I will persevere, and even if I don’t, one day the sun will expire too (ashes to ashes, dust to dust).

On the weekends, the routine is different. My husband makes coffee, and brings it to me in bed. We rarely squabble, and when we do, I can never stay irritated with him for long—partly because I remember this coffee devotion, so dependable and true.

For a half hour or so, I drink press pot brew with a generous dose of half-and-half, floating in a contented, lazy haze. He’s the first one up, so he will handle any disasters, and check on the moon, stars, and sun. Or maybe, once I rise and shine, we’ll meet the day together.