Making Espresso

flash memoir by Alyssa Witbeck Alexander

The Christmas after Kade and I married, we gifted each other coffee scented candles. We still practiced Mormonism then. But Mormons don’t drink coffee. To do so breaks sacred covenants to follow God. We ripped through the wrapping paper and laughed at the unintended duplicate gift, us both already finding loopholes in our previously fervent faith. Kade raised his candle like a toast. We lit our candles and the scent spread throughout the living room. For months, our house smelled like a waxy Dunkin’ Donuts.

We tried actual coffee on my birthday in March—a rebellious treat. It didn’t matter that I mispronounced “macchiato” or that Kade asked the barista if they had a “cappuccino machine.” What mattered was, though we couldn’t name it then, something broke before we sipped. We held hands in the car, our shared drink in the cupholder between us.

One day, after Kade and I had tried coffee a couple more times, we stood in the tiny coffee aisle of a Utah Walmart. We stared at a $20 Mr. Coffee drip coffee machine. We both jumped and looked away whenever we saw another person walk by.

“The pans must be farther down the aisle,” Kade shouted if he suspected someone lingered near us. My heart thumped, and we ducked around the corner until the aisle emptied again.

After a few minutes, we looped back to the Mr. Coffee machine.

“Twenty dollars?” I hesitated. “Doesn’t that seem a little excessive for coffee? That’s like... ten coffees worth. Do you think we’ll ever drink ten coffees?” Buying a coffee maker meant we planned to make sin a routine. An intention to make coffee a part of our life, a part of our home. I held the box for a while but eventually placed it in the cart.

We then snagged our first bag of ground coffee beans, Seattle’s Best, which, based on the name, we deduced to be the best. After a few laps around the store to make sure no Mormons we knew would ambush us at the check-out lane, we headed home.

On Sundays, Kade and I held hands in the pews. Mormon church services left us feeling more spiritually hungry than fed, and rather than staying for the full three hours of meetings, Kade and I snuck out after the first and drove to a coffee shop. Kade and I straddled two communities. We guzzled coffee while we questioned our faith. I dedicated hours to podcasts, books, and scripture, begging myself to believe, but the more I studied, the more I questioned.  

Our coffee maker gurgled during church time. From the kitchen window, I watched our suit-wearing neighbors walk to Sunday School while I incorrectly folded one of the hundred paper filters we’d purchased for a dollar. When my faith faltered, I talked. I paced our apartment, spewing facts about Joseph Smith, priesthood bans, and inconsistency in the scriptures while hot coffee sloshed out of my mug and onto the linoleum. Kade busied his hands making more coffee. Brown stains dotted our scriptures, the pages always open.

After we learned horrific details of Mormon temple ceremonies and fallen prophets, Kade watched hours of YouTube videos on steaming milk. We installed an espresso machine in our kitchen, and he practiced latte art: flowers and swans, and we tracked his progress. We experimented with affogatos and purchased cortado glasses online. We added spices and syrups, extracts and chocolate chunks. He left cappuccinos on my nightstand like a love letter.

For a while, we lived in the interim—consuming both coffee and the Gospel. Around Mormons, we hid our steaming cups in the backs of closets. When we hosted company, Kade unplugged the espresso machine and covered it beneath a blanket in the bedroom. But we couldn’t hide forever.

I resigned from the Mormon church while Kade and I sat in a coffee shop. We’d considered stepping away from the church without the formal resignation process, a quiet fade out. But we cared about Mormonism too much for that. It was no longer nourishing, it was harmful, and we had to leave. Kade and I settled onto a bench in a room in the back, and I flipped the switch on the heater by our side. Artwork hung on the walls, new images every month featured various local artists. A small group of university professors lounged a few tables over, each of them occasionally standing for refills. The world outside of Mormonism no longer scared me; we were part of something else now.

I logged onto my account on QuitMormon.com and reached for my warm lavender latte. When Kade and I had first tried coffee, I’d hated the taste, but I loved it now. The foam popped, a barely audible crackle in my ear when I sipped. A couple tiny lavender flowers caught in my throat, and I washed them down with another frothy swallow of espresso and milk. I drank slowly to extend the experience, both out of nerves, but also to add weight to the moment of finality, even if contrived. Coffee rings clung to the top of the mug, rubbed off where my mouth returned to again and again. With half of my drink remaining, I clicked “submit.” Kade kissed me, foam pressed against his lips

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Alyssa Witbeck Alexander is a Utah born writer. She holds an MFA in creative nonfiction from the University of Montana where she was an editor for Cutbank. Her work has been nominated for Best of the Net and has won the Original Utah Writing Competition. She is published in Miracle Monocle, Rupture, Chestnut Review, and elsewhere. She crochets an unsustainable number of stuffed animals, for no real reason. Find her on Twitter @lyswalexander and on her website alyssawalexander.wixsite.com/website