Have discovered a new and unexpected pleasure that may go far in alleviating the great mental strain of having to spend so much time with the people I love most in the world: grinding coffee beans. Have never bothered before because coffee to me is a vehicle for half and half, and if it were socially and medically acceptable to just drink the half and half, I would.

But today ran out of the usual pre-ground coffee, rooted around in the cupboard, and discovered a bag of whole beans once bought by accident. Husband actually located a coffee grinder in the basement (no mean feat considering current state of basement): a small white cylindrical thing that looks like a Star Wars robot. You load in the beans, press the button, and the most satisfying BRRRRTZZZZZZRRZZZT ensues. Truly therapeutic. BRRRRTZZZZZZRRZZZT BRRRRTZZZZZZRRZZZT BRRRRTZZZZZZRRZZZT BRRRRTZZZZZZRRZZZT Tempting to drink 16 cups of coffee just to have excuse to grind more. BRRRRTZZZZZZRRZZZT

Speaking of therapy, needed some yesterday after discovering what Mrs. Diagonal left at our door: a blue gift bag with blue curly ribbons. After wiping the whole thing down with bleach water, we opened it and found, NOT the weird, mint-green booties from acrylic yarn that our dear friend Beth Rosenstein Cole inflicts on new parents, but a downy-soft crocheted baby blanket in yellow. At first was mystified: is Mrs. Diagonal asking us to pass along this blanket to the same mission we donated the diapers to? But then a card explained all: CONGRATS on the new baby! So there it is: A miracle birth, at 52. Has Mrs. Diagonal never noticed the vast streaks of grey in my hair, my own personal expression of feminism and indolence? Has the beautiful youthful glow of my skin confused her? Or does everyone look young from the vantage point of 100 years?

NB: Napoleon was 52 when he died. Cannot find whether he ever ate a quiche or was even aware of its existence. His army didn’t get quiche; they ate poorly on certain ill-fated campaigns and were reduced to eating “horseflesh seasoned with gunpowder.” Gunpowder: look this up on Food Network. Could be next big thing.

Threw tissue paper in trash, carried downy soft blanket to laundry room for gentle washing, scrubbed my own hands as if prepping for heart surgery, and explained to Younger Child that NO, Mommy is not going to have a baby but we could get out the Amazing You! book if he had any lingering questions about the way babies usually appear in the world. Have to decide fate of blanket and how to thank Mrs. Diagonal while quashing this most inaccurate belief that I, at my age, have spawned new life.

NB: Napoleon did love a good roast chicken. This resonates. Really, our similarities are eerie.