What color is the sky?
I don’t know. I haven’t had my coffee.
Who was the first president?
I don’t know. I haven’t had my coffee.
When and where was your son born?
I don’t know. I haven’t had my coffee.
You get the picture. I’m not a morning person. The first thing I do when I get up is make a good strong cup of coffee. I use a primitive method. I put water in a pan and turn the gas flame on high. I put coffee, El Pico espresso, extra fine grind, in a filter. I set the filter on top of an Italian mug, DeRuta Blue Arabic. When the water comes to a boil, I pour it in a Pyrex measuring cup. Then I pour the water into the grinds in the filter. I take my coffee with milk, 2%, and sugar. Es mi gasolina. The Italian mug I use is the last in a set of four, a long-ago gift for a once-upon-a-time occasion. The ceramicist was named Sanguinetti. He signed the bottom in a jaunty hand. I wonder if he’s still alive. If he is, I wonder if I could find him at work in Deruta. That’s in Italy, in Umbria. If he isn’t, I wonder if I could find someone who knew him, someone who could tell me a bit about him. I wonder if he is or was “sanguine.” A funny word, sanguine. (From The Free Dictionary: 1. a. Of the color of blood; red and 3. cheerfully confident; optimistic.) A word that makes me hesitate, a word that stokes my vocabularic diffidence. Especially when I haven’t had my coffee.
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I’m feeling sanguine about this. But it's one in the afternoon. Maybe I’ve had too much coffee.