Today’s gonna be a Twofer---I have to get this in before midnight turns the pumpkin.
Chris likes to serve my coffee every morning. As I’ve probably said before, he’ll shoulder me gently out of the way if I reach for the first cup on the counter before he has a chance to pour it for me. I fill the percolator at bedtime, then he plugs it in when he hears me open the door of the bedroom.
(I must admit, though, that part of the chivalry may just be kindled by my surly demeanor of a morning, until I’ve at least breathed the fumes of caffeine---perhaps his discretion IS the better part of Valor in this case). Anyway, if he weren’t a bit slipshod in dropping stuff and piling stuff on every surface and leaving stuff where he might think to ask for it next December---IF---then I might be a little dismayed at the absolute ship-shape of the morning counter.
Pot shining, with handle to the right, for easy access, at the rear. Sweet & Low in a cute pink bowl, left front. Cheery red cream pitcher of skim aligned perfectly on the right. Demitasse spoon perfectly perpendicular to counter edge, pointing at pot, exact center. And just the other day, I caught him turning the POT-LID so that the flat edge of the button faced front.
It’s an OCD DREAM. And he ain’t---not in any other facet of his life. Just my coffee. Personally, I think it’s self-defense.
But the rose---it grew to be an every-holiday thing, then, after we moved into this house in stroll-proximity to a BIG grocery Mart, Chris started making it a point to plug in the coffee on Sunday morning, then walk out, to return with pastries, a paper, and a rose.
The ladies at the store point him out to each other; they tell customers about him. They swear to go home and slap their own husbands upside the head.
But, a couple of years after we moved up from the South, he FORGOT. He came home bright and cheery as always, with no rose and not a word, though we’d made plans to go to dinner, and I was all dressed.
We were living in a darling little rental, a ranch with lovely little rooms and a cute garden, and so I said, “Why don’t we re-enact our meeting? You go in the kitchen, and I’ll sit here on the sofa, and you’ll come in and we’ll MEET.”
He just enters into the Spirit of ANYTHING with a happy heart---he smiled and headed for the kitchen. I sat down, arranged my skirt just so, and gazed expectantly toward the door.
Then I called out, “Are you bringing me a rose?”
An immediate, flustered “YESSSS!” from the kitchen.
And out he walked, smiling exactly the same as back then, and with a flourish and a bow, presented me grandly with my red pot scrubber impaled on the carving fork.