I'm Your Problem Now
Chapter 12… Geneva on the Lake, OH… 2010
Last Thursday morning, desperate and jonesing for decent coffee, Mary dropped into Café Rhonda. It was, apparently, the only artisanal coffee joint within a 30-mile radius.
This was Mary’s reality now: retirement in the sticks. She and her husband, Steve, had relocated from Seattle to Geneva-on-the-Lake, Ohio. His idea. He’d been a school teacher; she, a corporate heavyweight. So, after two decades of marriage with him always following her lead, it felt only fair.
Admittedly, the adjustment had been… jarring. But it was fine! Who wouldn’t love open skies and folks genuinely wanting to know how your day was? If anything, Mary was just relieved to find coffee culture had made it to Middle America. Good for them.
She also had to hand it to Café Rhonda, the place smelled incredible. Something like warm anise, citrus zest, or… roasted almonds?
So Mary placed her order and hovered by the bar when she heard her name. Without thinking, she reached for her cup. Then… froze.
She looked up to the barista. The name tag read Todd. He wore orthopedic shoes, smelled faintly of mothballs, and he could’ve been anyone’s grandpa.
“Mary? Cortado?”
“Yea…”
“Welcome to the area!”
It was unsettling that Todd knew who she was before she’d introduced herself, but what bothered her even more was the fact that, well, she was pretty certain there was… phallic foam art on top of her cortado.
Todd must’ve picked up on her unease, because he started rifling through his stack of receipts. “Heck, did I mess your order up?” he called out to Stacey at the register.
“No, no. That’s mine. Sorry. Yes, it’s mine,” Mary replied quickly, grabbing her cup.
“Whew. You had me cocking my head for a minute there!” Todd chuckled.
Mary scanned Todd’s face for a smirk. This had to be a joke of some sort, a hazing. But Todd just smiled warmly. His bushy eyebrows moving around like caterpillars.
Deeply disturbed, Mary bolted to her car, where, upon closer inspection, she became absolutely certain Todd had drawn a dick on her coffee.
What on God’s green earth…?
So Mary hightailed it home for a second opinion, but by the time she shoved the cup into Steve’s hands, the foam had dissolved.
“I’m telling you! The guy drew genitals,” Mary insisted, breathless.
“I know the move’s been hard on you,” Steve replied, not looking up from his gardening. “You want some tea instead?”
Mary guffawed. No, she didn’t want tea. She wanted a decent conversation. This was the craziest thing she’d ever seen. There was a potential predator on the loose. And these poor folks didn’t know any better!
But Steve kept pruning in his khakis, never breaking his stride. His Zen-like attitude and low blood pressure always drove her nuts.
Then, per usual, Steve asked what their couples therapist always did, “Mary, do you want to be right or do you want to be happy?”
To which Mary replied, “I want to be right, Steve.”
So, the next morning, on a solo mission, Mary returned for some reconnaissance and a hit of caffeine. She hovered by the bar, eyes peeled, watching Todd work. And sure enough, plain as day; another penis cortado.
“I gotta ask about the foam,” Mary said, loud enough to hopefully turn heads. She couldn’t be the only one receiving these anatomical renderings.
“Isn’t it neat?!” Stacey piped in. “Todd took a microfoam illustration class in Toledo!”
Todd beamed. “William-Sonoma offers some great night classes. Very comprehensive. It flared up my arthritis something awful, but I got through. A real hand job, you know?!”
Mary blinked. Surely, someone else had to have heard that. But, Todd pressed on.
“And cortados ain’t easy. I really get to work my craft. Tiny glass. No room for error, but that’s the thrill!” he mused as if he was Geneva’s own Picasso.
“Todd started here after his wife passed away,” Stacey said delicately. “High school sweethearts.”
The staff bowed respectfully, as Todd became solemn.
“She was decapitated in my convertible. On our way to church. Low branch took her head clean off.”
Mary choked on her cortado. Stacey handed her a napkin. A nearby patron made the Sign of the Cross.
“Loretta loved my coffee. I made a hard, strong brew. Stiff. Just the way she liked it. My foam art … is how I keep her legacy alive,” his voice caught.
“May she rest in peace,” Stacey whispered.
And without another word, Todd turned on his heels and took his fifteen.
Mary sat slack-jawed in her car. Great, she thought. I'm accusing a widowed senior citizen of perversion.
Or… was that the perfect cover?
Son of a bitch. This guy’s good. Mary peeled out of the parking lot and sped home.
By 2 A.M., Steve found Mary, hunched over her laptop, Post-it notes scattered across their dining room wall.
“There are no records, Steve!” Mary jabbed at her screen. “The last beheading was three towns over in 1832. A barn animal dispute with a shovel. Explain that!”
Steve rubbed his temples. “Mary, if you hate it here this much, we can move back to Seattle.”
“Hate it?!” Mary’s voice jumped an octave. “I love it here! I feel ALIVE. For the first time in years I have a purpose. Neh! A calling. You want coffee!?”
Steve had never heard Mary use the word neh. Nor did he want coffee. So he went to bed.
The following week unfolded like a fever dream as Mary built out a murder board.
POSSIBLE MOTIVES | WHO IS RHODA? | TODD = WIDOWER??
She popped into the café daily. Drank cortados. Took notes. Followed Todd home once or twice.
The damndest thing was… everything checked out. There wasn’t a loose end to be had.
Mary had Todd’s daily routine mapped out to a T. The café was named after Rhonda Flemming, a 1940’s actress the owner adored. Loretta had been decapitated, in a convertible, near a church in Milwaukee where her family lived. And Mary hated to admit it, but the foam illustration class in Toledo was a blast.
It just didn’t make sense.
Meanwhile, Steve began packing their belongings, making an executive decision the move had been a terrible mistake.
“We can’t leave!” Mary begged. “I’m meeting the Tribune on Monday! I think I can nail him on public indecency, distribution of obscene material, moral turpitude…”
The two went back and forth. Steve was convinced Mary was spiraling from caffeine and menopause. Mary insistent he always tried to pull her plug right before she sparked.
“Our flight’s in the morning,” Steve said, walking up the stairs. “I hope you’ll join.”
“This has nothing to do with you, Steve!” Mary yelled, “Or us! Or our sex life!”
But Steve didn’t respond. Instead he quietly closed the bedroom door. The conversation over.
Mary stood there, shoulders hunched. Even she didn’t fully believe what she was saying, but it was easier than admitting the truth.
This wasn’t about Todd or his erotic showpieces. This was her, and the gnawing restlessness that never seemed to go away. Nothing ever made her happy. Not really. It was always fleeting.
Her marriage had somehow, somewhere, lost its pulse. Maybe it never had one. Her hopes and dreams had never panned out. She was angry about it all. Resentful. Yet she was still grasping, desperately, for something to fill this hole she could never name.
She envied how content Steve was. He chose happy, no matter how difficult she, or life, was. She loved him for that, she really did.
Guilt began to creep in.
Moving here had been Steve’s one request in 20 years. The guy just wanted to slow down, and be nature. How was she making this about her again?
So, for the first time, Mary decided to do things differently.
She’d apologize to Steve in the morning and convince him to stay. She’d sink into this new life like a warm jacuzzi. Turn the other way when she got cortados.
Relieved, Mary took down the cork boards, and tossed her leads. She got into bed proud of herself for finally seeing things so clearly.
But as she lay there, listening to the steady hum of Steve’s CPAP machine, she wondered…. what if?
As soon as day broke, Mary was out the door with a note for Steve to hang tight.
Fortunately, the annual Turkey Trot had been that morning and the café was packed. The entire town seemingly inside.
“Hey, Mary!” Stacey called through the crowd as Mary squeezed through, “Cortado?”
“Two dozen!” Mary shouted back.
Stacey paused, confused. “Twenty four?”
“Foam art on each one. And don’t hold back, Todd. I wanna see these bad boys sing.” Mary laughed maniacally, surprising even herself.
Stacey and Todd glanced at one another.
“Mary, Todd can’t do twenty four. It’s been a busy morning…”
“He can do it!” Mary slapped the counter. “Who wants to see Todd work? He loves exposing his art. Right, Todd?!”
Todd fumbled as people turned their heads.
“Cat got your tongue,” Mary taunted, swiping her credit card. “Come on!”
She looked around, working up the room. “Todd! Todd! Todd! Todd!” she yelled, as others joined.
“You got this!” a patron cheered.
“TODD! TODD! TODD!” the roar progressed, as Todd took a deep breath. He closed his eyes.
And then Todd went to work.
Cortado after cortado. He worked fast. Flipping, turning, spinning, twisting each one until a perfectly erect penis was formed.
5, 10, 18, 20, 23… and finally, 24.
Mary had never seen anything like it. The crowd went wild as Todd ripped his apron off, slapping it to the floor.
“I LOVE YOU LORETTA!” he screamed as he held his fist up to the sky.
“NO! NO!” Mary screamed. “Pervert! THIS MAN IS A PERVERT. Jesus, what are they putting in the water down here?!”
The room gasped, taken aback.
“I’m sorry to be vulgar, but there’s a penis on every one of these!” Mary exclaimed, holding up a cup for all to see.
The room fell into a deafening silence.
“A penis?” Stacey finally said.
“A penis,” Mary repeated, riding a high of righteousness she’d been chasing her whole life.
She finally locked eyes with Todd, who looked genuinely bewildered.
“That’s a biscotti, Mary…”
“A what?”
“A biscotti,” Todd replied gently. “We bake them from scratch every day. Loretta loved a good dunker.”
Mary looked past the counter to the kitchen, where a friendly baker waved from the window.
Mary waved back.
To say it was humiliating would be generous.
Mary’s face went hot as she babbled an apology. She then took her twenty-four cortados to go, mothers shielding their children’s eyes as she walked past.
By the time Mary drove home, Steve was long gone. The place was empty. Her note, crumbled in the trash.
Mary consumed over 1,500mg of caffeine that morning and blacked out in her front lawn. She woke up hours later with a sunburn and a restraining order.
And with her tail between her legs, Mary made her way back to Seattle, apologizing to Steve and swearing it would never happen again.
It would.
Happy holidays, friends!
If you’ve made it this far, I’ve got a bang-up biscotti recipe to share. If you’ve unsubscribed, and plan to avoid eye contact next time we cross paths, I get it.
This isn’t for everyone, and neither are biscottis.
I, myself, have recently become a convert after getting a tickle for them over Thanksgiving. Turns out, they’re surprisingly easy to bake.
In fact, my first batch didn’t last the morning…
The base seems to be universal: flour, sugar, salt. But from there, you can run wild- anise, almond, lemon, coconut, vanilla extracts, roasted almonds, pistachios, chocolate, citrus zests, lemon juice…. the options are endless.
What isn’t endless is the patience of your family. Mine awkwardly cleared the room around batch five. Do with that what you will.
My next recipe was from my mom’s friend Paula, an Italian woman who hand wrote the recipe back in the late 80’s. It was fantastic, should you want to give this one a go:
Otherwise, here’s my final (and most foolproof) recipe. Easy, quick and very tasty. Enjoy!
Easy Vanilla-Almond Biscotti
Ingredients:
2 cups all-purpose flour
¾ cup sugar
1 tsp baking powder
¼ tsp salt
2 large eggs
1 tsp vanilla extract
½ tsp almond extract (optional but great)
¾ cup sliced almonds (whole or chopped)
Optional to mix and match: ½ cup chocolate chips or chopped chocolate, 1tsp of orange zest or 2tsp of anise oil.
Heat oven
350°F
Line a baking sheet with parchment.
Toast almond
Heat a dry cast iron skillet over low to medium heat.
Add almonds in a single layer—no oil needed.
Toast, stirring or shaking the pan frequently, for about 5–8 minutes, until they’re golden and fragrant. These go from crispy to burnt fast. So keep watch.
Remove immediately from the pan to cool (they’ll keep cooking if left in the hot pan).
Mix dry
Whisk flour, sugar, baking powder, and salt.
Add wet
Stir in eggs, vanilla, and almond extract.
Fold in almonds (and chocolate if using).
Dough will be thick and slightly sticky.
Shape
Divide dough in half.
Shape into two logs, about 10 inches long and 2½ inches wide.
Slightly flatten the tops.
Slice
Lower oven to 325°F (or at 250°F if you want a harder, baked biscotti)
Set logs on cooling rack for about 10 minutes.
Slice logs diagonally into ¾-inch pieces.
Second bake
Lay slices cut-side down.
Bake 10 minutes, flip, bake 10 more minutes. (For extra crips, add 5 more minutes per side). If you’re doing 250°F it’ll be around 20-30 minutes per side.
Cool completely
They crisp up as they cool.
Cheers!
L O L
☕️