Coffee Log, Year 2, Day 90


Coffee: Maxwell House Drip, Office Coffee

I only know one language. Sometimes, I wish I knew more.

In elementary there was this Spanish teacher. She came around to classes once a week. I liked her because she was pretty and paid attention to me. My parents liked her because I was doing well in class. I don’t know the mechanics of it, but they worked something out where she’d tutor me after school twice a week. I might be getting the numbers wrong, but that’s what it felt like.

Anyway, I didn’t learn any Spanish. I knew some words, but that’s it. I don’t remember what we studied, or any of the extra lessons I did. Instead, I remember this one time she and I helped set up a buffet for some kind of open house. I stole a couple pigs-in-a-blanket. I’d never had them. She thought that was funny, or at least my nine-year-old mine thought she did. I remember feeling good about the stealing, and about being alone in this big school with my teacher, like I’d gotten one over, like I was an important part of the world.

She taught me how to say pig in Spanish. I remember her teaching it to me, but don’t remember the word.

Currently Reading: NOTHING! will pick a new book soon

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They had chains which they fastened about the leg of the nearest hog, and the other end of the chain they hooked into one of the rings upon the wheel. So, as the wheel turned, a hog was suddenly jerked off his feet and borne aloft.

Upton Sinclair, The Jungle

Coffee Log, Day 127


Coffee: Fair Trade Ethiopian Medium Dark, Harris Teeter Brand

I thought a lot about peeling potatoes today. The same old recipes just aren’t cutting it…

There was a customer who only spoke Spanish. We danced, tried to help, not understanding. When he smiled, he had great white teeth. Chomp! Finally, they got the Nicaraguan to translate. I never knew what they said.

A couple weeks ago, a woman passed me her license. Black hair, a teacher barrette, thick Spanish accent. We had a lovely conversation. She wanted to do a lot of things I couldn’t do and then she left like summer’s first storm. I sat in a too-cold bank for two more hours when her cousin showed. She said she’d bring the woman back and work something out. I said we’d do our best.

The day got longer, sun fell down, our drive-through buzzed at every passing bird; the cousins never came back.

Currently Reading:

History of Wolves, Emily Fridlund (2017 Man Booker Prize Shortlist) (FINISHED!!! Unforgettable; will post a review this weekend)

Support Relief for Family Suffering at the BorderRAICES DONATION CAMPAIGN

“There is no fire like passion, there is no shark like hatred, there is no snare like folly, there is no torrent like greed.” – Gautama Buddha