Ferris washed the cups at dawn.
He even washed the handles.
He polished the pot’s outside
with the top of Josie’s sandal.
“Use a cloth,” said Josie.
“That sandal’s nearly new.”
“My sister’s coming,” Ferris said.
“I have a lot to do.”
His sister Una ran a café
in a little town near Silver.
She’d fed a hundred people daily,
then sold the place last winter.
She was coming out to visit,
which meant, said Ferris, rest.
He’d show her how a camp cook worked
when he was at his best.
Cleve was kneading biscuit dough
against his floury knee.
“I think she might enjoy a chair,”
he said. “Or meeting me.”
Ferris hauled a chair out.
He set it near the shade.
Then he studied Josie’s spice jars
and the coffee he had made.
One jar held her cinnamon,
reserved for pies to sell.
One held chili for their supper.
Both were labeled underneath.
Ferris took the nearer jar.
He tipped some in the brew.
“A little café touch,” he said.
“She’ll know I’ve learned a trick or two.”
Cleve looked in the coffee pot.
He saw the red grains swimming.
“Your touch is doing laps,” he said.
“The water’s almost crimson.”
Ferris took a small first sip.
His eyes began to water.
He said he’d swallowed wrong, of course.
He said the cup was hotter.
Cleve tried it, blew his nose,
and set his cup down fast.
“That is not breakfast,” he declared.
“That is something running past.”
“It’s a special blend,” said Ferris.
“Very fine. Very rare.”
“I’ve smelled it at our supper,”
Cleve said. “Usually there.”
Ferris turned the jar upside down.
The word was plain and large.
He put it back on Josie’s shelf
and tried to look in charge.
He had more beans beside him.
He had water cold and clean.
But making a fresh pot now would mean
the first had been a mistake.
He found the tin of sugar.
He stirred in spoonfuls three.
Cleve watched without assisting.
He was saving his sympathy.
Ferris tasted. Ferris frowned.
He searched the morning sky.
“It needs a little milk,” he said.
Cleve asked him, “Doesn’t everything?”
The milk went in. The milk went round.
The pot was pale and pink.
“That is not breakfast,” Cleve said.
“That’s something pigs might drink.”
Una came along the path
with a bag and dusty shoes.
“I’ve walked the last half mile,” she said.
“I like your morning views.”
“Sit down,” said Ferris proudly.
“Coffee’s on its way.”
She saw his clean cup handles.
She saw the pink display.
She smelled it once and asked him,
“What exactly did you use?”
“Beans,” he said. “And water.”
She waited for more news.
“A touch of spice,” he added.
“Milk. Some sugar. Not a lot.”
“Which spice?” she asked. He showed her.
She studied the whole pot.
“You’ve made a sweet chili soup,” she said.
“You’re welcome to your portion.”
“Could you help me bring it round?”
“I could. But that’s my old job.”
Ferris glanced at Cleve, who turned
the biscuits on their tray.
He’d shaped them very differently.
Two leaned the wrong way.
“I came to see my brother,”
Una told him. “Not his test.
You can make another coffee.
I can sit here while you rest.”
He opened his mouth to argue.
Then Josie joined the group.
She looked inside the coffee pot.
“Who ordered breakfast soup?”
“My mistake,” said Ferris.
“I took the chili jar.”
Josie checked her cinnamon.
“Good. The pies have not gone far.”
“I’ll pay for what I used,” he said.
“The beans and all the rest.”
“Put it on the shopping bill.”
She didn’t call him best.
He started water heating.
He measured ordinary beans.
No special touch. No second jar.
The pot came back out clean.
Una had a little packet
she’d carried in her bag.
“I’ll take hot water for my tea.
I like my coffee later.”
Ferris stared at her tea leaves.
Then he gave a small, tired laugh.
“All morning on the coffee.”
“I wasn’t here for half.”
Cleve put the biscuits near her.
She broke the crooked one.
Its middle steamed. She ate a piece.
Then took another crumb.
“Who made these?” Una asked them.
Cleve raised his floury hand.
“Will you tell me how you do them?
They’re better than they stand.”
Cleve pulled a chair up by her.
They started talking dough.
Ferris poured the fresh brew out
for Josie and himself.
He still had one pink cupful
he’d left upon a stone.
“I might have made a new taste,”
he said. “A taste of my own.”
He took a sip to prove it.
The talk stopped at his cough.
He pointed at the distant hill
until his eyes dried off.
Una waited, smiling,
with her biscuit in her hand.
Ferris wiped his mouth and said,
“That is not breakfast.”
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