by Karla Harrison (bio at end of story)
“A Frappawhatta?”
“A Frappamocha. It’s a coffee drink. Don’t tell me you’ve never had one.”
I was visiting a friend who lived in the greater Seattle area in the days long before trendy coffee was available throughout the U.S.
“No, can’t say as I have. Always found coffee a taste that I’ve…yet to acquire.”
“Oh, but you’ll like this,” she propositioned. You won’t even realize there’s coffee in it. Trust me. You don’t know what you’re missing.”
Coffee wasn’t something I thought what missing from my life. Sure, it smelled nice, but that’s about as far as it went. Coffee was for grownups, and although I’d been out of college for several years, I still didn’t consider myself grown up. Besides, coffee was for the beautiful people, the wives with long flowing hair who stare lovingly at their husbands in business suits while sharing sections of the paper over the breakfast dishes. No, I was not one of the beautiful coffee-drinking people. The occasional cola or cup of tea was enough for this big boned, big-nosed, curly headed girl. Then I tried the Frappamocha.
“Mmm. Nice. Sort of like a shake. But more refreshing.”
“I knew you’d like it,” my friend said.
That Frappamocha was like one of those alcoholic drinks where you don’t realize there’s alcohol in it until you’re almost through, then it hits you, and you’re flying, and hey, I was zippy that evening, high on the caffeine palpitating my heart, and, wow, I didn’t fall asleep until late — read an entire paperback even. Why hadn’t I tried this before?
When I returned to my hometown, I searched in vain for an equivalent to what I experienced on my vacation. In the meantime, I waited as the commercial sector of my little corner of the world caught up to the sophistication of Seattle. First, a couple ice cream chains offered something similar to the regaled Frappamocha. I was placated for a time. Then, finally, the day came…the Frappamocha arrived. Like a devout Catholic at communion, I was the first in line to receive it. Soon it was in every mall, shopping center, and airport within a 10 mile radius of my house. I never failed to arrive at work without Frappamocha in hand. “A Frappamocha a day keeps the sleepies at bay,” I chanted.
Soon my favorite blended beverage wasn’t enough. I needed something stronger. So I tried the harder stuff – lattes, cappuccinos, finally working up to double and triple espressos. Finally, I realized this daily ritual was breaking my bank account, so I decided to make my own concoctions.
I bought a Mr. Coffee and mixed sugar and cream substitutes in varying amounts, always searching for the perfect blend. It was good for a quick fix. Soon, though, I bought a home espresso maker. I researched filters, water, and proper frothing techniques. I found recipe books that even helped me cook with coffee. I was well known at the office for my cappuccino bread pudding and demitasse truffles. And everyone sought my advice on buying the perfect gourmet beans.
It was while buying beans at one of those frou-frou little boutiques that I met my future husband. Wearing Birkenstocks, bell-bottoms, a polo shirt, a Harley Davidson jacket, horn-rimmed glasses and a ponytail, he was the poster child for three decades’ worth of bad fashion. What fascinated me, however, was the way he smelled the bags of coffee. He approached the bag, gently lifted it to his nose, and inhaled, as if it were brandy in a snifter. Though I stood several yards away, I enjoyed the aroma as much as he did. I drew near.
“White chocolate macadamia?” I asked.
“Yes. How did you know?”
“I’m not sure. But try it again with another one.”
He reached for another bag, hiding the label from view. He inhaled deeply.
“Amaretto almond,” I said.
“You’re amazing!”
“Not really. I’ve been coming here so long I have the entire stock memorized,” I admitted.
We sat and sampled some blends. As we talked I realized that the man’s clothes represented who he was – a motorcycle riding, cigarette smoking, disco dancing hippie with preppy values. Everything I despised. But as the months passed we grew on each other. He gave me a pukka shell necklace, and I bought him a pair of khaki slacks. Of course, we had the coffee in common. We even found we liked the same grind. Soon we married, bought a house and painted it the color of mocha. We adopted a white cat and named her Latte. We got matching cup holders for our VW van. We be-bopped through our days, just carrying on, until he propositioned me over the din of our new restaurant -grade espresso machine.
“A famawhatta?”
He stopped the machine. “A family, honey. I said I want to start a family.”
“You mean have kids?”
“Yes. Haven’t you thought about it?”
“Can’t say as I have.” I always considered having children an acquired taste. Sure, babies smelled kind of good, but I knew that didn’t last. Having children was for grownups, and at the age of 30, I still didn’t consider myself one. Besides, not being one of the “beautiful people,” I was afraid of what my child would look like.
“Honestly, I really don’t like kids. Too many bad baby-sitting experiences.”
“But you’ll like your own. It won’t be the same as baby-sitting. Really, I don’t think we know what we’re missing.”
I thought about it and decided to try it. I’d gotten used to other unfamiliar things before. Hadn’t I?
So we tried. And tried. Meanwhile, I subscribed to parenting magazines, frequented those frou-frou little baby boutiques, and created little outfits so Junior could match Daddy. And still we kept trying.
After a couple years we decided it was time to seek the help of a specialist.
We sat in the doctor’s office as he discussed the test results. Lucky for my husband, he was off the hook. “Plenty of strong swimmers in the stream,” he joked. So the doctor addressed me as he announced the overwhelming protocol I was to undertake: such-and-such pill followed by blah blah blah after which you must yadda yadda yadda. Of course diet plays a key role…plenty of water…blabbidy blah…leafy greens…no caffeine…
“What? What’s that last part?” I said, almost spilling the Styrofoam cup of coffee I held in my hand.
“It’s best to eliminate caffeine. The drugs you’ll be taking work better if you do.”
My husband snickered all the way home. “I’ll bet you can’t do it.”
“Listen,” I said, “if I have to give it up, so do you.”
We went cold turkey. We had headaches for two weeks. He just wanted to sleep. I lost my zip. He had to take over the grocery shopping as getting within five aisles of the aromatic coffee section was enough to send me into delirium tremens.
It’s a wonder we had the energy to even try to get pregnant, but after what seemed like a long while, the effort and sacrifices paid off. Big time. As so often happens with fertility drugs, we just wanted a single but received a double — we were expecting twins. I felt great except for the nausea brought on by cigarette smoke. So my poor husband had to give up one more bad habit. It was my turn to snicker.
I was very proud of myself for being strong and not even sneaking one latte during the entire term. Then into what seemed like my fifteenth hour of labor, I cracked. There I was, lying on that hospital bed, legs spread, sweaty husband holding my sweaty hand, when I screamed, “I’ve had enough!!”
“What can I do for you, sweetie? Are you ready for the epidural?” As helpless as he felt at that moment, I knew my husband would do anything for me.
“If you really want to help me,” I said, teeth clenched, “then you’ll get me my Frappamocha.”
“You can’t have that during delivery,” a dutiful nurse said.
“Like hell I can’t!”
My husband returned in record time. As I took my first long, leisurely sip through the straw, I could smell the cigarette smoke on his breath. We were both a lot more relaxed. The babies came out in no time. And they were beautiful people.
Having children is like drinking a Frappamocha. I was totally unprepared for how wonderful it was going to be. Why hadn’t I tried this before?
~~~
Too busy dressing our kids like a Hell’s Angel John Travolta, we settle for a quick cup of ground roast in the drip coffee maker. No more countless hours of sniffing beans for us. We have other aromas to inhale.
Still, we like to pay homage to our past. Though our kids are named Anastasia and Bradley Jr., we jokingly call them Star and Buck.
© Karla Harrison. All Rights Reserved.
Finalist - A Frappawhatta? by Karla Harrison
Karla Harrison is a former high school Spanish teacher currently working as bilingual administrative support for a local landscaping company. Her story is slightly based on fact: She has recently given up caffeine as part of her fertility protocol (No kids yet). As a side note, her husband has much better fashion sense than the character in the story.
Editor’s Note: “A Frappawhatta?” was chosen for the first round for the following reasons: Great title that immediately piqued our curiosity, as well as the repetitive quote on the title at the very beginning of the story. Nice mirror effect. Excellent writing, correct punctuation, no spelling errors. Good twist on the theme of coffee combined with love. Wonderful realism and dialogue that pulls the reader into the story. The ending has punch. We mean it. Great ending. A whole lot of story packed into a short amount of space.
