Sunday Coffee

I have measured out my life with coffee spoons.

~T.S. Eliot                                        

Every Sunday that we weren't hung over, Bugs and I went to Stumptown for coffee. He didn't have to be at work, a respected wine shop in SoDo, until 11 so I would doze, listening to him shower and then watching him roll up the sleeves of a wrinkled button-up shirt. Around the time he selected a jaunty cap from the hat hooks in our bedroom, I would spring out of bed and hurriedly pull on jeans and tie back my messy hair. Leaving our apartment to round the block to P-Town (as the sign proclaimed from our point of view), he'd ask me if I had my keys. I did.

We took turns buying each other nonfat lattes, the best in town. I added raw sugar to mine; he never did. I always finished mine; he rarely did. He'd sip, but sometimes I think he just liked to hold the cup on his way to work, even though it was surely cold by then. 

Sometimes I'd feel whimsical and order a raspberry latte with a raspberry donut hole. 

Sometimes I brought my laptop or a novel I was engrossed in, but usually we read the New York Times together. Sometimes, if I was caught up writing or reading, I'd linger at our table after he left for work, watching people come in and out until I felt antsy and knew it was time to return home. But usually I'd walk with him to the bus stop or down the hill to the freeway, kiss him good-bye and then turn around and march back up the hill, looking forward to my little solitary Sunday.

Little, yes. The world seemed much smaller only a few short months ago. Is that what repetition does? Calm and comfort us as we slip into stagnation, letting our views of the world shrink? 

The last time I saw Bugs, five months ago, I was wearing latex gloves. Having agreed to help me clean the apartment formerly known as ours, he dutifully moved the fridge and oven so I could scrub away the splattered grease of over five hundred dinners. We sprayed and wiped up the sad, furniture-void spaces and said good-bye. There were no kisses and he left his keys behind. 

I haven't seen him since then but I'm going to today. For Sunday morning coffee before he goes to work.

The venue has changed. We're meeting at the Top Pot near my new apartment, where I've become addicted to the spicy chai. Today I think I'll get something new and chocolate covered and a cup of drip for dunking. I've been working my way through Top Pot's repertoire of donuts and so far the apple fritter, blueberry bulls-eye and chocolate-covered old fashioned are my favorites. It's good to mix things up sometimes. Though there's comfort, of course, in revisiting the old standards, those maple bars and rainbow-sprinkled pleasures of the past. 

Dim Sum Date

After a full lap around the rainbow rows of sake and candies, the live but lethargic lobster and geoduck, the mouthwatering mochi and miso pastes, I finally found her staring at a shelf of spices. 

"What are your best finds?" I asked eagerly, pulling my grocery cart beside Lacy's. She reached down and grabbed up bags of meat: pork belly, butt, fat back, and spareribs, as well as chicken feet and chicken carcasses. I had already picked up the spareribs, part of the week's "Philippines Special" and priced at only $1.99 per pound, just begging to be eaten for Sunday dinner, slathered with sticky homemade barbecue sauce and served up with the watermelon currently taking up half my crisper space.

"So are you going the barbecue route or the Asian route?" I asked, pointing at the ribs, quick to compare notes.

"Asian. I'm going to marinate it in miso." Lovingly eyeing her fat back, she said, "I'm going to make bacon."

Our eyes met and we inched closer together. "For BLTs!" We blurted in unison.

Just last week, we decided that this summer, once the tomatoes are just right, we're going to make the best, most lovingly-crafted BLTs ever. Lacy was over at my apartment, scooping up crab dip with my baked bread. She kept harping about my bread, incredulous that I'd made my own, even though it was just a dense baguette, nothing spectacular. For my mom's birthday, I'd gotten her a gift certificate to Cook's World, near the U-Village, and we finally cashed it in and went to a bread baking class not too long ago. I found I really enjoyed making bread. I would highly recommend the class to anyone interested. Anyways, last Saturday, Lacy told me that if I was competent enough to bake my own bread, I really had to make my own mayo. So we decided that I would make the bread and mayo, she would make the bacon, we'd go to the farmers market for the tomato and lettuce and then...with our powers combined...we form....Captain Planet!

Captain Planet, he's our hero, going to take pollution down to zero! This BLT just might save the world.

Back in the grocery aisle, I worked my way up to asking what was really on my mind. "What the fuck are you doing with the chicken feet?" It came out casually, like I had a whole list of possibilities in my head and just wanted to check recipe notes. Like I had some freaking clue why my favorite gourmand was buying three pounds of chicken feet. I stared at them in awe and disgust.

"I'm going to make chicken stock!" Lacy exclaimed, a quick glimmer in her wide eyes. "The feet make it so gelatinous." I nodded in understanding. "Gelatinous," she whispered again. "Just don't tell Bugs."

The beauty of it unfolded before me, like a flower. I hadn't made stock since the winter, when a satisfying weekend meant roasting chicken on Saturday night, then shutting myself inside with a few horror movies and stewing up the carcass on Sunday. On my second or third attempt, I found I preferred to skimp on the skimming, and let a fat layer develop when I refrigerated or froze the stock. The fat layer is actually supposed to protect the liquid, and it's easy to remove before cooking. Unfortunately, I ran out of homemade stock around March. And this time of year, a good homemade stock would really improve a spring-time spinach risotto or cream of asparagus soup.

I looped back to the meat case, hunting for the smallest packages of those crone-looking bird claws and breast plates. Since I was taking a while, checking the packaged date and price on every pound, a woman elbowed past me and I conceded her victory over the chicken section. I dropped back, eager to get back in the action. Her young daughter sat in the cart, eyeing me and pulling on her braids.

"Mommy, I want to eat the hands. I want to eat the hands with the fingers," she said, pointing at the package in my hands.

"We don't eat that shit," the woman muttered and wheeled her cart past, packed safe with chicken breasts and bread. Watching her go past, I felt like I had a secret, an alchemist's formula to transform garbage into the gourmet.

Uwajimaya is truly an adventure. Shopping at Seattle's home of "quality Asian grocery and gifts since 1928" is one of my favorite Saturday outings. Best of all, it's inevitably preceded by a lunch of dim sum. Today, Lacy and I tried out Jade Garden. Though more than a dozen people waited outside, and twice that inside, we were lucky to get seated right away. When the waiter called out an opening for two at an otherwise occupied table, we jumped at the opportunity.

Our stomachs growling, we previewed the treasures in each basket on the steam cart. Pointing at this and that, Lacy and I ordered to our "heart's desire," knowing that the shu mai, ginger pork dumplings, barbecue pork buns (hum bao), and sticky rice wrapped in leaves would barely add up to $8. We still desperately needed an order of walnut prawns, and when we finally hunted them down, they were delicious! The shrimp had a crunchy exterior, mimicking the slightly candied nuts, but the inside was cooked to perfection, not at all rubbery.

Feasted and full, we trotted over to Uwajimaya to fall in love with their imported goods and abundant produce. Hours later we emerged, cradling our bags back to Lacy's car, full of treasures to unpack and savor, gawk at, and get giddy on.