I sat at the kitchen table. It faced into the kitchen, not into the table. Leg room. I watched as the pot slowed its final drips. A watched pot never boils, and a Mr Coffee perhaps falls into that category, too. But I had nothing else to do but sit and prepare my nerves, so I spaced out while eyeballing the warm elixir visibly create itself into being, like the Egyptian god Atum from the dark expanses. Stare long enough and you can slow your heart rate, and watch life pass in slow motion. What appears a steady stream is actually a series of segments.

Drip. Drop … drop.

“G’mornin, kiddo.” Uncle Lars’ enthusiasm startled me with a jerk. “You’re supposed to drink the coffee with your mouth, not your eyeballs, y’know.”

He grabbed a brown mug from the cupboard and poured the fresh pot.

“Like so, eh?” Lars was the easy-going jokester of the crew. He took a slow sip to not burn his tongue. “Not bad, kiddo,” he said. “Needs milk.” He went to the fridge.

“I’ve already had one cup,” I explained. “The rest is for my thermos.”

“Then I’ll get another pot going,” he said, withdrawing the milk from the fridge.

“There’s coffee in the mezzanine,” Uncle Bill stated as he entered.

“No shanks,” Lars said. ‘Shanks’ was one of his many personal colloquialisms. “You perk that shit too strong. You’ll be shitting your pants before sun-up.”

“Can’t see how you can drink that watered down milky swill,” said Bill. “You’re making it cold by adding milk.”

“I’m making it palatable.”

“There’s non-dairy creamer in the cupboard,” I pointed out.

“Definitely no shanks,” said Lars. “That shit will give you cancer.”

I unscrewed the cap to my thermos. My eyes fell floor-ward.

“Crissakes, Larry!” Bill spat. Uncle Lars realized what he’d said. “We don’t use that fucking word here,” through his teeth.

Lars smacked his lips after a particularly long awkward draw from his cup.

“My mistake, Shy. I meant nothing … well … you know.”

“It’s OK,” I assured him. “Your statement was irrelevant.”

“It was very relevant,” Bill said, still fuming. “Here.”

Uncle Bill walked to the table and finished unscrewing my thermos.

“You don't want to pour the hot coffee directly into the cold canister. Unless you like it lukewarm like shithead over here.” He gestured to his brother with his right hand holding the plastic thermos mug and looked to me for confirmation. I shook my head. “Right. Then you’ll want to pour boiling water into it first and let it settle.

Bill took the thermos through the archway to the woodstove. A cast iron kettle hissed by the stove’s flue collar. With a gloved hand, he withdrew the pot and poured its content. Lars sighed in annoyance.

“Just … like … so,” he said as he poured. He replaced its stopper and screwed the mug back on. “Five minutes. Let it sit. Gives you enough time to brush your teeth and pray to St Hubert.”

“Nobody prays to St Hubert,” said Uncle Lars.

“Says the guy who never kills a deer,” retorted Bill.