But I’d made two sandwiches!
At that moment, Joe came into the kitchen buckling his belt. I said, “You look very smart.” He was wearing gray flannel trousers, a white shirt, and a striped tie, and looked so casual and American and relaxed.
“So do you,” he said, and came over to kiss me. “Coffee ready?”
“Oh!” I’d forgotten. I poured the hot water from the kettle thing over the granules in the cups, got out a spoon, and stirred.
Nothing happened. The coffee didn’t dissolve.
“What’s wrong with it?” I asked, stirring some more to absolutely no avail.
Joe had his trying-not-to-laugh face. “I guess we need another lesson in American. It’s a percolator,Meine Prinzessin.You put the coffee grounds in the basket, you see, and cold water into the pot, turn on the fire, and …”
The whole thing was quite complicated, but eventually, Joe said, “Now that you’ve got brown liquid coming up into the knob, here, you see?, we’re at the start of the brewing cycle. The water rises up as steam and permeates the grounds, then drips back down as coffee. Ingenious, really. We turn down the heat and set a timer for eight minutes, and you have coffee.”
“Oh,” I said. “I made your sandwiches, though! I’m about to begin on the bread and jam.” He looked at me oddly, and I said, “For breakfast.”
He seemed to catch sight of my table workspace for the first time, because he ran a hand over his mouth, and I realized he was trying not to laugh. “Marguerite,” he said in achoked voice, “those are the saddest sandwiches I’ve ever seen.”
“The bread is very soft,” I tried to explain. “And rather strange.”
“Did you make me a …” Some more smile that he couldn’t hide anymore. “A peanut-butter and marmalade sandwich?”
“But you like marmalade!” I said. “You ate it on the train!”
He was fully laughing now. “Not so much with peanut butter. OK, let’s give these poor guys a home. We’ll slice them in half—is there a reason you’re not using the breadboard, by the way?”
I blinked at him. “The what?”
He turned and wordlessly pulled out a large wooden slab from directly beneath the countertop. “The breadboard. Very useful. Let’s bring the sandwiches over here—whoops, there went some of my peanut-butter-and-marmalade—and slice them in half with the sharp knife—I’m afraid to speculate what a table knife would do to these boys—and grab some wax paper to wrap them in.” He tore off a piece from a roll of translucent paper, which did indeed have a waxed surface like butcher’s paper, set the pieces of sandwich on top—they looked more bedraggled than ever now—and did some complicated folding to enclose them, then repeated it with the other sandwich, which trailed ribbons of white lettuce across the kitchen as he moved it. “We grab a paper lunch bag,” he said, “toss in an orange, and there you go. I’ll get a carton of milk at school.” He looked at the bag. “Maybe two cartons, to wash everything down. And look—Mom got the latest automatic toaster and gave me the old one. That’s luxury, huh? Means we can make toast easy as can be.That’ssomething I’ll bet Germany doesn’t have. Now, what were you planning to do about eggs?”
“Eggs?” I’m afraid I was still blinking rather stupidly at him.
“Fried, scrambled, soft-boiled?” he said, pulling the carton out of the refrigerator.
“Uh …” I said.
“Marguerite.” Joe had lost control of his face again. “Do you know how to boil an egg?”
I raised my hands from my sides and let them fall. “Have you everseenme boil an egg? Have you ever seen an egg in a shop in Germany?”
“Well, no,” he said, still grinning. “But I suppose I assumed you’d watched somebody else do it, back during the princess period.”
“Eggs,” I said, “sit on the sideboard in their egg-cups in the breakfast room, along withBrötchenand sliced breads and butter and jam and smoked fish and cheeses,and perhaps sliced cucumbers and radishes, too, if the season is correct. The coffeepot and sugar and cream are on the table, of course, and one serves oneself that, too, if it’s wartime and there aren’t so many footmen to pour. This is what I know of true breakfast. Well, this and what we had on the train, where somebody brings it out to you on a plate.”
“Right,” Joe said, and began rolling up his sleeves. “Then let me teach you how to boil an egg. And butter a slice of toast.” He was laughing, though, and so was I.
Somehow, I was in his arms, my head against his chest, saying, “And I meant to be such a good wife, too.”
“Never mind,” Joe said, rubbing his hand down my back in a most comforting way. “I may have the most mangled sandwiches in the joint, but I’ve got a wife with a will of iron and a mind like a steel trap. I think we’ll be OK. But say—” He pulled back from me, though his arms were still around me.
“Yes?” I asked.
“Do you know how to use a carpet sweeper?” he asked. “A wet mop?”
“I know how to use a broom and dustpan,” I said. “Andhow to scrub the floor with a brush and rags and a bucket. I’m quite proud of my scrubbing. I learned by watching the maids, and then, you know, at the bakery, I did it myself.”
“Ironing?” he suggested.
