Damn you, Folgers coffee.
“Are you… crying?” my daughter asked. We were taking a Sunday afternoon break on my bed, watching television. Nothing in particular. Just relaxing. Peacfully.
Until the commercial.
It is early morning before sunrise. Snow covers the ground, the bushes, the trees. A taxi pulls up outside a snow-covered storybook two-story home, where in the subtle golden glow of dawn you see a girl’s face watching from the window. She runs and opens the front door.
Brother, complete with back pack, is home. Has he been gone for a long time? The subtle yet dramatic music insinuates he has, indeed, been gone for a long time.
Sister sits on the counter as he makes coffee. He takes from his backpack a small box with a red bow and hands it to her. She looks at it for only a moment – a dramatic moment - then takes the bow off of the gift and sticks it to her brother’s shirt.
“What did you do that for?” he asks. Wait for it… wait for it…
“You’re my gift this year,” she says.
Then mom and dad, who are awakened by the smell of the coffee, come downstairs to discover that Son made it home for Christmas. It is a Christmas miracle.
(Now take a moment and go get yourself a tissue.)
“Mom. Seriously. Are… you… crying?” my 14-year-old asked again, peeking over the pillow I have clutched to my chest. Should I lie? Say I have something in my eye? Blame my suddenly sniffled nose and the tear stains down my face on allergies. No. I would not lie. I would take the totally mature route and avoid the question.
“I don’t even like coffee,” I said, punctuated by a weak ha-ha. My statement was true. I don’t even like coffee. Not true, unadulterated coffee, at least. My husband thinks me un-American for not being able to drink straight coffee. I will partake in the occasional coffee infused with some sort of frufru mocha vanilla bean caramel whipped topping concoction. But never just plain coffee. Ew.
He thinks the same thing about beer, that there is something wrong with me, I mean. I don’t like it. Never have. I can honestly and without fear of being struck by lightening or turned into a troll say that I have never, ever drank a beer. One sip, maybe two, and that was enough. Ew.
“You just haven’t ever been thirsty enough,” my husband proclaims, which very well may be true. “There is nothing better than an ice cold beer on a hot, hot day,” he also says. I would consider arguing that point with him but, sigh, I have learned to pick my battles. What about ice water? I would argue. Or Lemonade? Melted chicken fat? Any of those things would, in my opinion, taste better than beer.
“Mom’s crying,” my daughter said moments later as her father walked into the bedroom. I shook my head and pulled the pillow closer so he couldn’t see.
“What happened?” he asked.
“This guy came home and it was Christmas and they made coffee and, oh, I don’t know,” she said. He laughed. Mocked by my own family. And at Christmas.
If only I had a family like in the commercial… it’s snowing… early morning… a taxi…the children (sniff) make coffee… she puts the (sniff) red (sniff) bow (sniff) on his (sniff) shirt…
I need a tissue.
Damn you, Folgers coffee.
Contact columnist Mandy Flynn at firstname.lastname@example.org.