It is not a bright and cheerful morning. There is no first ray of sunlight peeking through the curtains, only a howling raw wind from the gap at the keyhole of the bedroom door.
It is freezing cold outside and the drafts in our house are like an Icelandic ice bath as I pour out of bed and blindly wander around looking for slippers. “I will wait” by Mumford and Sons is playing in my head.
I stretch, I yawn, and I feel the radiator wake from its troubled sleep-set point of 62 degrees. It kicks into high gear as the floor shakes and begins to thaw, drowning out the voice of Marcus Mumford crooning on about devotion and patience in my head. "Now I'll be bold as well as strong. And use my head alongside my heart."
I stumble to the kitchen sensing that something is off kilter with the universe this morning, and it is not my bare left foot, unsuccessful in finding a slipper and losing a battle with potential frostbite.
The first sensation as I enter the kitchen is shock and awe. Mr. Fortin’s solution to a small hole at the foundation behind the kitchen cabinet, which has frozen the dishwasher line 5 times this winter, is to leave all the cabinet doors wide open overnight. Artic air is pouring out into the kitchen.
My second sensation as I enter the kitchen is just, “Crap.” There is no happily pre-programmed brewing pot of coffee at the ready and now I must MAKE the coffee before I push the button. I throw caution to the literal wind at my feet and scoop a bunch of grounds into the bin, slop in 12 cups of water, and push play before sneaking out the back door to grab my morning smoke.
When I return more frost-bitten than when I left, there is a new set of problems. My husband, standing by the coffee maker happily humming a dandy tune while he doles out the vitamins. He turns and gives me a cheeky grin. "Good morning, sunshine," he says. “I’ve got the coffee this morning.”
“Coffee now?” I ask.
“Not done yet,” he says, as if suddenly elected as the Coffee Czar of the Fortin Household.
“I’ll just grab a cup while it’s still brewing,” I suggest as I look up at him through my eyelashes.
“Oh no!” he chimes in with a look of horror. “If you take a cup before it has done brewing, the rest of the pot will be weak, terrible coffee. We like bold coffee. You will have to wait.” As he says this, he is squaring his feet.
He looks about ready to get out the coffeemaker manual to prove his point. I realize he is not budging. He is ready to die for his and Juan Valdez’s opinion that me pouring a cup half-brewed will significantly taint the rest of the pot.
Marriage is about compromise, patience, love, and truth. I decide not to tell him that for our entire marriage I have been taking the first cup while it’s still brewing every morning. But today, “I will wait. I will wait for you.”
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