Sambos restaurant 1980. A young girl and boy sit in a booth with their mother. They eat, they talk. The outing winds down to it's natural conclusion.
"Can I get you anything else?" the waitress asks.
Then the dreaded words.
"Just a little more coffee please."
The children cringe. They are going nowhere fast.
I use to hate coffee. Throughout my childhood it stood between me and doing something fun. That uncomfortable period of waiting that came with topping off that second cup. In college I was so disgusted by people who had to have that morning cup of jo to get their day going. What weaklings I thought.
Then enter my husband. He use to make me sniff his coffee every morning. "Come on, just breath it in, it smells great." I resisted for years. Then while honeymooning in Austria for three weeks I did as the locals did and had a cup of coffee with breakfast. In our attempt to keep our trip alive I joined my husband in a cup of coffee and a plate of bread, cheese and meat in the mornings once we got home. The bread and cheese faded, and the coffee remained.
He makes a great cup, I'll give him that. Too good for his own good. Now he must provide a well frothed topper or else!
Lately I've been needing a second cup at nap time so I can have the boost I need to get my work on the computer done (or a post). Which brings me to the point of my rambling:
My poor mother. Like me now, she just need that little something to give her the energy to keep up with us the rest of the day. I'm emailing her now to apologize for all the grief we gave her.