A well-seasoned cup of coffee
- Melissa Herrera: Not Waiting for Friday
- November 11, 2018
- 1154
I never talk about the time I first made coffee as a newlywed. I don’t like to because I take my coffee-making skills seriously and it could cause a serious dent in my reputation. But some faux pas need to be reconciled, so I’ll take the risk.
I think we must start back in the ‘70s when I would smell the coffee Dad brewed every morning. It would have been straight Maxwell House, which I now turn my nose up to in disdain.
Coffee snobbery, I accept it.
The smell of it wafting up the creaky, old stairs into my pink bedroom under the front eave was dark and bold and mysterious. I would come downstairs and inhale the vapor into my nostrils, letting that heady mix vicariously inject caffeine into me. How I wanted to dip a fresh cream stick into its depths, watching as the cream dripped into the deep recesses.
Maybe this cream stick obsession is only a Holmes County thing, but I digress.
Flash forward to the ‘80s and high school, where coffee shops like Starbucks and all the coffee craziness had yet to infiltrate the area as well as the younger generation. We didn’t sip lattes or mochas or cappuccinos, hanging out in a java-infused world.
We drank hot cocoas from paper cups and Pepsi or Tab in a bottle. We rolled up and down the boulevard in neighboring towns, never delving into any cafes for a sip of dark brew.
When I married in 1990, we were on the cusp of the coffee shop explosion, one that would expand into every crevice of America. My new husband drank coffee, a lot of coffee, so my new coffeemaker would be getting a workout.
I hadn’t yet acquired a taste for the brew but decided to drink it right alongside him. I set everything up in my tiny kitchen with the sage-colored cupboards and soft purple window trim.
My coffeemaker was nothing fancy, small but efficient enough to do the job. I filled the tank with water and softly plopped tablespoons into the paper filter. I flipped the switch and listened to it gurgling. It was at this moment I realized I had never made a pot of coffee before, never. I had smelled it, been in the vicinity of it my entire life, but I’d never made one single pot.
It was coming through nicely, though, brewing dark and bold, and as I watched it pour through into the carafe, I pulled two coffee cups — wedding gifts — from the cupboard. I spooned powdered creamer and sugar into each cup, not yet knowing the precise measurements to bring a smile to my husband’s face. He could have prepared his own cup, but I wanted to do it this first time. I wanted to see that smile that made me melt each time, smiling because I had made him the perfect cup. Newlywed delirium.
When it was done brewing, I poured the hot liquid into the cups and stirred. It looked the perfect shade of tan that I knew he liked. I prepared myself a cup and carried them both to the table.
As we sat at our table, the very table we have had every single year of marriage — the one I’m sitting at now — I watched him raise that cup to his lips. His eyes twinkled as he took the first sip and just as quickly turned to horror as he spit that lovingly prepared brew back into the cup. It swirled viciously, that curling mouthful, blaming me for my transgressions.
My mouth hung open in terror, insides dropping as I asked him what was wrong. “What did you put in this coffee?” he asked.
I went back over each step and knew I had done everything the right way. “Taste it,” he said, pushing my own cup toward me.
I gingerly sipped it and knew immediately. Instead of sugar, I had added salt, several spoonfuls of it to each cup. I spit it back in, and we looked at each other, my face burning with my simple mistake. He began to laugh and so did I.
He never let me forget it, though, and loves to recount the story for laughs. As for me and my trusty Bunn coffeemaker and well-curated coffee selection, I threw a little salt over my shoulder, used the incident as fuel to never make a coffee mistake again.
And this from my husband, most nights when we’re craving a cup, goes something like this: “Honey, can you make some coffee?”
And I answer, “Why don’t you make some for me?”
And then he’ll smile at me and say, “Because yours is the best.”