I began my last post with the story of my husband Mowgli (not his real name) coming downstairs and asking “Where is my coffee?” and then segued into the serving protocol in traditional Indian homes. I thought the resolution to the initial Coffee Question Incident might be a good topic for my second post. Also, I suspect some of my readers might be curious to know what happened. For those of you who have confessed to feeling like a spy reading about my home life: I’m not going to tell you anything I wouldn’t tell you over lunch. That’s one of my rules.
What happened immediately was we went to work, came home, fed and walked the dogs, ate, griped about our days, walked the dogs again and went to sleep.
Then we woke up. Well, I woke up. It is mind-blowing to me when Mowgli wakes up first because it happens roughly as often as a Black man is elected President of the U.S. I get up, feed and walk the dogs, make the first pot of coffee, look at e-mail, eat, maybe exercise, and then decide whether to make another pot of coffee. Big decision.
I’ve been trying to cut back on coffee, and if I make a second pot that is supposedly for Mowgli, I generally drink more because it smells so yummy and I’m so tired and the coffee at work is not that great. I wasn’t feeling strong enough to resist the lovely aroma, plus I was a little ticked about the Coffee Question Incident and therefore not feeling as takey-carey as usual, so I didn’t make more coffee. Also, I wanted to test my darling love, because I am a little devious, and because he sometimes does that to me.
So Mowgli comes downstairs and asks, “Where is my coffee?”
Me: I think the coffeemaker’s on strike.
Him: What? Why?
Me: Are you trying to say you appreciate it when I make coffee for you?
Him: Yes.*
Me: Well, I might start doing it again if you ask me nicely.
Him: No, no. I’ll do it myself.
Me: Right. Because Heaven forbid you ask your wife nicely.
And then I left for work with a “Bye, Honey” yelled up the stairs with a touch of “you jerk” in it. Not my proudest moment, but then, not his either. I resolved not to make coffee for him ever again, since he didn’t even have the decency to acknowledge his appreciation unless I dragged it out of him.
At home that night, he said he was just giving me trouble by asking “Where’s my coffee?” I should know after six years of togetherness that he is nothing if not a provocateur. I feel like a gullible, easily riled American whenever we have one of these exchanges, and I want to dope-slap myself when I realize I’ve taken the bait yet again.
I made us a second pot of coffee the next morning. But then, my first pot had been mostly decaf. And I got a “Thank you, baby.”
*This is the only line of dialogue neither of us could remember clearly. The rest of it is verbatim.
Showing posts with label coffee. Show all posts
Showing posts with label coffee. Show all posts
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Sunday, February 1, 2009
“Where is my Coffee?”
The other morning my husband Mowgli (not his real name) came downstairs, looked at the empty, idle coffee maker, and said, “Where is my coffee?” I was still a bit sleepy, so I just repeated his question back to him with a bit of incredulity added. If I had been more alert I might have said, “Why don’t you ask the maid?” As it was I acted like a parrot and then shuffled off to work.
His question is not without merit. There are many mornings I do make coffee for him, partly because I know he is slow to wake and needs all the help he can get. But I’m also motivated by some kind of primal desire to take care of him, and sometimes I think perhaps I am setting up a bad precedent by doing this or that for him. If I let myself stew in my head about this, I arrive at a picture of him expecting me to bring him coffee on a tray, in silver and china cups, with milk bikkies on the side. He would absolutely love that, but me, not so much.
When we were in India, my Amma (mother-in-law,) was in a semi-constant state of hostessing, offering people (including me) drinks and food at all hours. Because we were there for our own wedding reception, and I was meeting everyone for the first time, and members of my family were there as well, she had hired a cook to help prepare the necessary masses of food. Still, as the mistress of the house, she spent large chunks of time conveying plates to the washing-up sink outside, buying things from the veggie vendors who rolled their massive handcarts down the street, and serving family and guests.
When I say “serving” I mean it very literally. In traditional Indian homes, women serve meals and snacks to men and female guests, hovering nearby and heaping dal and idli, dosas and upma until additional helpings have been refused several times. The woman of the house only eats once everyone else has finished. This was the case not only in Amma’s house, but in ours when she and Naina (my father-in-law) were here after our wedding.
This custom unnerves me. When I’m in a fancy restaurant, or one with a particularly servile server, I feel slightly unworthy of the fawning attention even though I’m paying for it, so when it’s coming from a family member, it’s just plain uncomfortable. Whenever Amma heaps things on my plate, I thank her repeatedly, and she tells me not to say thank you. It’s a sort of Mexican standoff, but it works.
In our house, I am the cook and usually the server, and Mowgli thanks me. We’ve arrived at this system through a series of discussions, one of which was an actual fight early in our relationship over a rather impressive dessert. Maybe I’ll write about that another time.
His question is not without merit. There are many mornings I do make coffee for him, partly because I know he is slow to wake and needs all the help he can get. But I’m also motivated by some kind of primal desire to take care of him, and sometimes I think perhaps I am setting up a bad precedent by doing this or that for him. If I let myself stew in my head about this, I arrive at a picture of him expecting me to bring him coffee on a tray, in silver and china cups, with milk bikkies on the side. He would absolutely love that, but me, not so much.
When we were in India, my Amma (mother-in-law,) was in a semi-constant state of hostessing, offering people (including me) drinks and food at all hours. Because we were there for our own wedding reception, and I was meeting everyone for the first time, and members of my family were there as well, she had hired a cook to help prepare the necessary masses of food. Still, as the mistress of the house, she spent large chunks of time conveying plates to the washing-up sink outside, buying things from the veggie vendors who rolled their massive handcarts down the street, and serving family and guests.
When I say “serving” I mean it very literally. In traditional Indian homes, women serve meals and snacks to men and female guests, hovering nearby and heaping dal and idli, dosas and upma until additional helpings have been refused several times. The woman of the house only eats once everyone else has finished. This was the case not only in Amma’s house, but in ours when she and Naina (my father-in-law) were here after our wedding.
This custom unnerves me. When I’m in a fancy restaurant, or one with a particularly servile server, I feel slightly unworthy of the fawning attention even though I’m paying for it, so when it’s coming from a family member, it’s just plain uncomfortable. Whenever Amma heaps things on my plate, I thank her repeatedly, and she tells me not to say thank you. It’s a sort of Mexican standoff, but it works.
In our house, I am the cook and usually the server, and Mowgli thanks me. We’ve arrived at this system through a series of discussions, one of which was an actual fight early in our relationship over a rather impressive dessert. Maybe I’ll write about that another time.
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