I ate breakfast with a woman last week who, in the course of twenty minutes, sent four cups of coffee back to the kitchen because they didn’t meet her standards, a drip-brewed cup with milk, two lattes, and a latte with oat milk. (Her name does not begin with J.)

I’m not a newcomer to this world and I have never met a person with such exquisitely fine taste in the coffee realm. Wine, yes. Coffee, no. I say this with all due admiration. It’d be so easy to reproach her, what with wars and starvation and natural disasters and global warming and doxing and polls showing that a majority of Americans support blatant dishonesty and corruption, but I don’t go down the shaming road.

I come from Middle America, the part of the U.S. not mentioned in geography classes in schools on the East and West coasts so if you tell someone there that you’re from Minnesota, you may as well say Moldova or Burundi, and in Minnesota we’re grateful for any dark warm beverage you bring us. Probably Moldovans and Burundians feel likewise. Postum, Maxwell House instant, coffee made from ground acorns, whatever — Thank you so much.

As a result of coming from an insignificant place, I have no critical skills whatsoever. I could no more review a book than I could dance the tango. I go to an orchestra concert and enjoy looking around at nicely dressed people and the music sounds pretty good, too. Now and then my socks are knocked off but mostly I pull them up.