So my husband is out of town on business and this brings out great sympathic signs from my friends. "How are you doing?" they ask. "Is it OK?" They're talking about the kids, of course, and so I bravely answer, "Oh yeah, it's great. It's fine." But really I want to say: "I mean, it's fine, but the coffee in this place is killing me!"
From the moment I moved in with my husband, which was about ten minutes after I met him over ten years ago, he made the coffee. I bought him a coffee maker and grinder for his new apartment, but from the moment the machines left the Zabar's bag, David was the only one to touch them. I've noticed other men do the same. My friend Chris said to me the other day, "Before I met Hilary, I never made coffee. Now, I make it every day." And lest you think it's just a new generation of males, my dad makes the coffee, too. When did the coffee maker become the grill of the kitchen?
This morning, I might have made a passable cup, but we had no milk, because I couldn't run out after my kids were asleep last night and get some, so I couldn't really tell. It doesn't matter, though. By the end of the week I will have relearned how to make a descent cup of coffee and how to get to the market when I need to, and then, David will be back and then he'll reclaim his rightful place in the kitchen in front of the coffee pot and I'll forget all about how to make a decent cup of coffee. Talk about co-dependent, without David I'm a coffee damsel in distress, and I kind of like it that way, too.