Chick Wit Archives – Lisa Scottoline

Big-Ass Night Table

June 8, 2025

by Lisa Scottoline

Size matters in only one thing.

Night tables.

I’m on a quest for the perfect night table.

This quest began forty-odd years ago.

I’ve looked for the perfect night table longer than I’ve looked for the perfect man.

Honestly, only one is essential in a bedroom.

Let me explain.

I started life with a really small night table, and I would put my glasses on the night table and they would fall off instantly, usually face down.

I scratched glasses nonstop.

I would pick them up if I was still awake, but if I was too tired, I would leave them there. And step on them on my way to the bathroom.

Plus I never had enough room for a real-sized lamp, which I needed to read.

The night lamp is itself a quandary.

If you get one that’s big enough to read by, you won’t be able to reach the knob and turn it off when you want to go to sleep.

And if you get one that’s too small, you’ll stop reading because it’s too hard on your eyes, then you’ll start scrolling Instagram and end up hating yourself.

The only thing instant about Instagram is self-hate.

I actually don’t know if the pretty shiny people on Instagram are real.

If they are, do they scroll Instagram and end up hating their lives, too?

To return to point, in time I learned that lamp size didn’t matter because inevitably, the dog would fall asleep on my arm and I didn’t have the heart to move him to turn off the lamp anyway.

I’d lie wake in the brightly-lit bedroom, only one of us snoring.

Any true dog lover knows to stay put when your dog falls asleep on you.

Like, our dogs teach us to stay.

The other bad thing about my too-small night table was that I had to stack my books on the floor, where they would be ready for me to slip on when I went to the bathroom.

It wasn’t a bedroom, it was a booby trap.

And I was the booby, trapped.

So at some point I started using a big-ass night table, which was actually an antique card table I had for years.

At first I was excited. I could put all my books on it, and a big-ass lamp, a big-ass Yeti of ice water, and a big-ass jug of Cetaphil. My phone charger would be closest to the bed, plus the lint roller in case I found a tick on a dog before bedtime.

What, you don’t lint-roll your dog for ticks before bed?

Must be nice.

To return to point, I just fell out of love with my big-ass night table.

It was so big that I would hit my hip on it every time I got up to go to the bathroom. Not only that, but what I learned from having the big-ass night table is that you use only the three inches closest to the bed.

The rest is just clutter you can’t reach anyway.

A night table that you makes you get up defeats the purpose.

Also the dog told you to stay.

So the quest continues.

Column Classic: Upgrading the Macaroni Necklace

May 31, 2025

by Francesca Serritella

My mom’s birthday is a month away, and I’m wracking my brain about what to get her—but really, it’s my favorite thing to obsess over. Here’s a Classic Column, which might be new to you as it never ran in the Inquirer, about birthday shopping for my favorite person.

When it comes to giving a gift to your mother, kids get a pass for a long time. But when your mother has a milestone birthday like sixty, a macaroni necklace will not do.

It was time for me to get my mother a grown-up gift.

This is not to say that I haven’t gotten her nice things in the past, but this year I wanted it to be really special. Maybe because I know that my mom is single, I wanted to get her a gift as nice as a husband would get.

Not one of her husbands—a really good husband.

I got in my head that it had to be jewelry.

I’d never bought a piece of fine jewelry before. First, I studied. For months leading up to her birthday, every moment of procrastination was spent searching the websites of jewelers and department stores for every item within my budget.

Since I couldn’t afford ninety percent of their inventory, this took less time than you might think.

After obsessively zeroing in on a few favorite options, I decided to make a trip to Cartier. Embarrassingly, I’d dressed up for the occasion. I wore a shirtdress that I thought said, “I use ‘summer’ as a verb.”

Click to read the full column on Francesca’s Website

Forza Mother Mary

May 25, 2025

By Lisa Scottoline

I’m turning into my mother.

But only in the weird ways.

Let’s begin with the ways I’m not turning into her.

I cannot make her tomato sauce.

Which honestly, we called gravy.

It’s a South Philly thing.

In my early books, I would write about gravy, and the copyeditor would replace it with tomato sauce, to which I would reply stet, which is bookspeak for back off.

Her gravy was unbelievable. It was rich, but not heavy, with incredible taste.

Never mind that she didn’t use a single fresh ingredient.

The tomatoes were canned, the paste was canned, and she added garlic salt and onion salt.

Nothing had to be washed or diced for her gravy.

Which is proof that it didn’t matter.

I guarantee this was the best gravy on the planet. We ate spaghetti in some form almost every night, whether it was regular pasta or her homemade gnocchis and ravioli, which were also out of this world, but the gravy made everything great.

You could put that gravy on cardboard and never stop eating.

I remember asking her what the recipe was, and she said, “You’re not getting it.” Which is pure Mother Mary.

I never thought to question it, because like all kids, I never imagined her dying.

But then she did, and of course I miss her, but you know what else I miss?

Correct.

So fast-forward to the rest of my life, when I try to make the gravy and fail miserably. Then I try a variety of jarred gravy that would make any card-carrying Italian-American shudder, but I do it anyway and I hit upon Rao’s.

Which is the closest to my mother’s but honestly, hers was even better.

So now I have pasta with an inferior gravy and think: “Mom, really?”

So fast-forward again to me in my dotage when I watch everything on Netflix, and for some reason I get hooked on Drive to Survive, which is all about F1 racing and I like it because I’ve always liked cars. And I’m lucky enough to be able to write about what interests me, so I find myself sneaking cars into my novels, then I find myself going to car events.

And last weekend I went to one and bought something my mother would’ve bought.

You may remember that Mother Mary always wore a lab coat.

She’s still the only person to have checked into a hospital in a lab coat.

She got them at the Dollar Store and she liked them because they had pockets for crossword puzzle and her cigarettes.

In any event, fast-forward to me, finding myself at an exotic car event and shopping at the stands where they sell shammy clothes and ceramic wax to more serious gearheads than I am, and I see a thing of beauty.

A Ferrari technician’s jacket.

It’s authentically Italian, and real Ferrari mechanics wear them when they work on real Ferraris.

I put it on, fell in love, and bought it, then realized it was a lab coat, only red.

The color of Ferraris.

And gravy.

It even has pockets on either side, for my cell phone and my dog treats.

So I can’t make the gravy, but now I have a gravy-colored lab coat.

Thanks, Mom.

The Tao of Eve

May 18, 2025

By Lisa Scottoline

I love sleeping with dogs.

But sleeping with a puppy is a different matter.

Let me explain.

You may know that I recently added a new member to my family, namely Eve, who is now a seven-month-old cavalier King Charles Spaniel. She joins my other two Cavaliers, Boone and Kit, who are almost fourteen now and differ on their opinion of her.

Boone loves Eve.

Kit wishes her dead.

I’m hoping he comes around.

Spoiler alert: He’s not going to.

But so far he’s not trying to kill her.

And Kit has his adorable moments with Eve. Like this morning, I took them out for a walk, and he peed on her leg.

By the way, it was raining.

So I actually got to watch a demonstration of “don’t pee on my leg and tell me it’s raining.”

Which is the perfect description of my second marriage.

This is only one of the many great things about dogs.

In any event, I love sleeping with Eve, but she’s very busy all night long.

At this point you’re wondering why I don’t put her in a crate.

Because I tried to in the beginning, but she cried and I’m a big softie.

Luckily she’s never peed on the bed and told me it was raining, but she is an insanely restless sleeper.

First, she loved to bring her toys on the bed and squeak them most of the night.

I took away the squeaky ones, and she started playing with the ball, rolling it around the cover, then on my body.

I took away the ball, and she would jump off the bed and find my socks on the floor, bring them up, and drop them on my face.

Then I picked up all my socks and took away all the toys and she found a way to amuse herself, running up and down the ramp that leads to the bed.

I couldn’t take that away because I already felt heartless.

Plus how else do you get a dog onto a bed?

Where she will disrupt your sleep.

Obviously, it doesn’t make a lot of sense. The sensible thing to do would be to put the dog in a crate and a moat around the bed.

But not all decisions are sensible.

That’s why God made divorce.

Meanwhile every single piece of furniture in my house has either a ramp or a set of little wooden stairs, but Eve loves to chews wood, so she makes a meal of those stairs.

She’s on an all-wood diet.

She eats doors and baseboards, and now my place looks like I live with a woodchuck.

Now you’re probably asking, why don’t you spray the wood with that stuff called Bitter Apple, which is supposed to make dogs not chew wood?

The answer is, I do, and Eve thinks it improves the taste of wood.

It’s the dressing on her wood salad.

She would drink Bitter Apple if I let her.

And when she’s not eating wood, she’s running around outside, finding a rock, and chewing that, too.

In the beginning, I started taking the rocks from her and putting them on a pile on the table. Now the table holds a pyramid of rocks, like oranges at the grocery store.

I should sell rocks.

Or I could spray them with Bitter Apple, then Eve would have a rock casserole.

I took her to puppy kindergarten and puppy elementary school, and next week we start puppy middle school.

After that, puppy Harvard.

She learned all her lessons, including Leave It, which I now use forty-five times a day, when she finds a sock, chews wood, or eats a rock.

And she Leaves It.

Until she finds something else.

This is all by way of saying, I love this puppy.

She’s completely adorable, despite all the puppy things she does.

Or maybe because of them.

She’s simply an incredibly affectionate ball of fluff.

When she finally settles down to sleep at my side, she has an adorable snore.

She loves to snuggle and kiss, which is a job requirement for any animal I live with.

Actually she’s a Make-out Queen, but I won’t elaborate.

She loves people, other dogs, and fun in general.

All the time, every minute.

Even at night, but that’s okay.

Life is to be savored, all the time.

And that’s what Eve reminds me.

Column Classic: Mommy’s Day Out

May 10, 2025

by Francesca Serritella

The last time my mom came to visit, I lost her.

It was like that movie Baby’s Day Out, except with my parent. I turned my back for one second, and the little rascal got away from me.

I imagined her crawling along an I-beam at some high-rise construction site.

But she’s afraid of heights, so more likely she’d be in Times Square, telling The Naked Cowboy he isn’t dressed warmly enough.

It started with tickets to see the new Larry David play. My mom checked that she had the tickets for the third or fourth time.

“It says, ‘late arrivals will not be seated,’” she read, for my benefit. My mom is early to everything. We left with an hour to spare.

And yet, we found ourselves in a cab crawling up Sixth Avenue for a half-hour with fifteen blocks to go. I checked our route on my smartphone; the driving estimate to get to the theater was fifteen minutes, the walking was only ten.

“I think we should get out,” I said.

Click to read the full column on Francesca’s Website

Column Classic: The Mothership

May 4, 2025

By Lisa Scottoline

I’m a terrible negotiator. I’m too emotional, and I can’t pretend I don’t want something I really want.

Like George Clooney.

But today we’re talking cars, and this is the tale of my first attempt at negotiating.

To begin, I have an older car that I take great care of, and it’s aged better than I have, sailing past 100,000 miles without estrogen replacement.

But around 102,000 miles, things started to go wrong, and flaxseed wasn’t helping. I knew I’d be driving long distances on book tour, and I started to worry. I called up my genius assistant Laura to ask her advice, as I do before I make any important decision, like what to eat for lunch.

I asked her, “Laura, do you think I need a new car?”

“Yes. Absolutely.”

“But it’s paid off, and I love it.” And I do. It’s a big white sedan called The Mothership.

“I know, but you have to be safe. What if it breaks down on tour?”

“That won’t happen.”

“Except it has. Twice.”

An excellent point. One time, The Mothership died on the way to a bookstore in Connecticut, requiring the bookseller to pick me up at a truck-stop on 1-95. I bet that never happened to James Patterson.

So I needed a new car, and since I love my dealership, I went there. I thought they loved me, too, which they did, except when it came to the bottom line. They gave me a good deal on a new SUV, but a rock-bottom price on trading in The Mothership.

I asked, “How can you do that to her? I mean, me?”

I told you I get too emotional.

And I added, “Plus you’re supposed to love me.”

But they don’t. They run a business, and it’s not the love business. However, it’s my secret philosophy that all business is the love business, so I got angry. They had taken care of The Mothership for the past ten years, at top dollar, and it was worth so much more.

Guess what I did.

I walked out.

I took my business elsewhere. That very day, I called up another dealership, who said, come on over, we love you, too. In fact, we love you so much that we’ll give you a better deal on your trade-in. And they did, after inspecting The Mothership and calling her “the cleanest 100,000-mile car they had ever seen,” which we are.

I mean, it is.

But just when I was about to say yes, my old dealership called and told me that they still loved me. I told them I was already rebounding with my new dealership, but they said they’d top the offer on The Mothership, and after much back-and-forth, I went back to my old dealership, like ex sex.

But long story short, the day came when I was supposed to pick up my new SUV, and I felt unaccountably sad. I took final pictures of The Mothership. I stalled leaving the house. On the drive to the dealer, I called daughter Francesca and asked her, “Wanna say good-bye to the car?”

“Mom? You don’t sound happy.”

“I’m not. I love this car.”

“Aww, it’s okay. It’s probably not the car, anyway. It’s that you have such great memories in the car.”

I considered this for a minute. “No, it’s the car.”

By the time I reached the dealership, I was crying full-bore, snot included.

My sales guy came over, and when he saw me, his smile faded. “What’s the matter?”

“I love my car. I don’t want to give it up.”

“So keep it,” he said, which was the first time it even occurred to me. I know it sounds dumb, but it simply never entered my mind. I’d never bought a car without trading one in.

“But what about the money?”

“We’re only offering you a fraction of what the car’s worth. If I were you, I’d keep it.”

“But I’m only one person. Why do I need two cars?”

“They’re two different cars. The old one’s a sedan, and the new one’s an SUV.”

I wiped my eyes. “You mean, like shoes? This is the dressy pair?”

He looked nonplussed. “Uh, right.”

“Really?” My heart leapt with happiness. I decided to keep The Mothership. It’s strappy sandals on wheels, if you follow.

Thus ended my first attempt at hardball negotiations, which backfired. Having bargained for the best price on a trade-in, I couldn’t bring myself to trade anything in.

Because I love it.

It sits in my garage, aging happily.

Soon we’ll both be antique.

Priceless.

Happy Mother’s Day

April 27, 2025

By Lisa Scottoline

Mother’s Day is almost here.

I’m already lactating.

Why?

Because I’m having a mommy-type moment that I wanted to share with you. Not only because it’s a cool thing that’s happening to me, but because it’s a little reminder that wonderful things can happen in a woman’s lifetime.

We begin way back when Daughter Francesca was born, and I quit my job as a lawyer because I really enjoyed being home with her. Lawyering didn’t work for me part time, and the months after her birth made me realize that raising her was simply the most important, and fun, thing I could do.

This all sounds great until you realize I was getting divorced and had zero money. So I decided to be a writer, and then followed five years living on credit cards while writing and getting rejected.

But meanwhile I got to stay home with Francesca, and I remember those early days so well, because the lack of money was beside the point. I was doing something I loved, being with this curly-haired, blue-eyed, baby, and watching her grow.

I remember after I’d put her down at night, she’d be in her crib, talking away.

I would stand outside her bedroom, listening, but I couldn’t make out any of the words. She was just yakking up a storm, in an extremely animated way.

This would last for hours.

So one day, when she was about four years old, I asked her, “Who are you talking to in your room at night?”

And she answered, “I’m telling myself my stories.”

Fast-forward a couple of decades later, when she actually becomes an author, and this summer, something remarkable is happening. Namely, my storyteller daughter has a novel coming out in August, entitled Full Bloom.

Plus I have a novel coming out in July, entitled The Unraveling of Julia.

This is a harmonic convergence for our tiny two-person family.

This summer, mother and daughter will be blooming and unraveling together.

You can pre-order our books now, and we’d be delighted if you would!

We’re even doing events together, and I can only imagine how proud my mother would be. She would curse with happiness, her highest form of self-expression.

For what it’s worth, I never pushed Francesca to be an author.

I pushed her to become a veterinarian.

I need a vet very badly.

Nor do I take any credit for her becoming an author, because the best storyteller in our family was Mother Mary. She could turn anything into a story, and she knew to keep it short, punchy and funny, just like her.

The day of her funeral, there was such a heavy rainstorm that my entrance hall flooded for the first and the last time ever. Francesca was sure it was a sign from her, and I agree.

Somehow, I know that my mother will show up at one of our signings this summer, heckle us, and/or do something vaguely obscene.

I can’t wait.

It reminds me of the saying that everything will be alright in the end, and if it’s not alright yet, then it’s not the end.

Well, this might be the end because everything’s alright.

And this author’s getting her own happy ending.

Thanks, Mom.

And thanks, Francesca

Happy Mother’s Day!

Column Classic: Mother Mary Grounds 4000 Flights

April 20, 2025

by Lisa Scottoline

A column classic in honor of Mother Mary, who passed eleven years ago, but whose memory lives on. Thanks to all of you who continue to celebrate her and read about her.

I believe in science.

Except when it comes to Mother Mary.

I always think of her this time of year, because she passed away 5 years ago, on Palm Sunday.

Yes, I’m aware that the date of Palm Sunday moves, so that it’s not the actual day she passed, which was April 13. But it’s so Mother Mary to remember her on the holiday, and I’ll explain why.

She was only 4’11”, but her personality was ten times her size.

I love talking about her, which I just did, on book tour. I’m supposed to talk about my new book, Someone Knows, but I always end up telling funny stories about her, and oddly, they all involve the weather.

I tell the story about how she was the only person in South Florida who felt an earthquake that had occurred in Tampa, a fact proved by a call she had made to the Miami Herald to report same. When the TV newsvan went to her house, they called her Earthquake Mary.

Which she loved.

I tell a story about how I made her fly north to get out of the path of a hurricane, and when she was interviewed about it at the airport, she said, “I’m not afraid of a hurricane, I am a hurricane.”

I tell a story about the day of her memorial service, when it rained so hard that my entrance hall flooded, which has never happened before or since.

And then this Palm Sunday, she sent me another weather-related sign.

I was sitting on a plane in St. Louis and heading for Chicago, when we heard that there was a sudden snowstorm blowing into Chicago.

In the middle of April.

I know it snows a lot in Chicago, but not that much in April, and this storm was unexpected. My flight and others were delayed because the Chicago airport was putting a ground hold on all flights, so we sat on the plane and waited.

And waited.

It turned out that 4000 flights were canceled that day, and mine was one of them.

Unfortunately, I missed my book signing in Chicago.

My apologies.

And I thought of my mother, which is when I wondered if, in fact, that was what she’d wanted all along.

Mother Mary was the youngest of nineteen children, so we can guess she didn’t get much attention. Even now, I think she’s saying, Look at me.

Think of me.

Remember me.

Of course, I need no reminder, nor do you, to remember those you loved and lost.

Holidays are bittersweet for those who have lost people on or around them, but there’s a part of me that thinks Mother Mary likes being remembered on Palm Sunday.

An extraordinary day for an extraordinary woman.

She loved whenever Francesca and I wrote about her. You may remember when Philadelphia magazine published its Best of Philadelphia awards and gave Chick Wit an award. For Worst of Philadelphia.

Thanks, Philly mag.

I’m still laughing.

Last.

Mother Mary happened to be visiting when I got that award and she was very disappointed.

Because it didn’t mention her.

Thanks to all of you who like the stories about her. Many of you have been to my house for our Big Book Club Party and were as loving to her as if she were your own mother.

With profanity added.

Mother Mary bathed in your affection and talked about you readers all the time. You gave her a gift that she didn’t even know she needed.

A spotlight.

In my opinion, every mother deserves one.

Mother’s Day may be around the corner, but honestly, I don’t think we give mothers the credit they deserve.

They were the invisible force of nature behind all of us, and if we were lucky, it was a fair wind, not an ill one.

I was lucky, and so was my brother Frank.

Mother Mary was the most loving of mothers and adored being a grandmother, too. I love when Francesca writes about her, because though we know how much grandparents adore their grandchildren, it’s not often you get to hear how much a grandchild loves a grandparent.

Even more.

We call Francesca The Grandmother Whisperer, because my mother would do anything if Francesca asked.

But not if I did.

Because Francesca asked, Mother Mary even went to the fireworks on July 4, and you haven’t lived until you’ve sat under an exploding sky with your vaguely combustible mother.

When Mother Mary was in hospice at our house, Francesca was at her side, caring for her, talking with her, and doing my mother’s nails, a loving act made more poignant by its circumstances.

Mother Mary used to joke that when she passed, she wanted a mausoleum.

At least I think it was a joke.

She was proud of herself.

She stood up for herself.

She tried to get the best for herself and her family.

She loved people. She could not walk into an Acme without greeting the produce guys, whom she knew by name.

She struck up conversations with every shopper.

She played peekaboo with every baby.

She made life fun.

If Mother Mary grounded 4000 flights, she had a good laugh over it.

So did I.

Happy Easter, Mom.

We love you.

Column Classic: Shades of Gray

April 13, 2025

By Lisa Scottoline

What’s the difference between accepting yourself and giving up?

I’m talking of course, about going gray.

Because that’s what’s happening.

I’ve had glimmers of gray hair before, but it was concentrated on the right and left sides of my head, which gave me a nice Bride-of-Frankenstein look.

But I’ve been working so hard over the winter that I haven’t bothered to get my hair highlighted, and today I noticed that there’s a lot more gray than there used to be.

And you know what?

It doesn’t look terrible.

Also the world did not come to an end.

In fact, nothing happened, one way or the other.

But before we start talking about going gray, we have to talk about going brown. I seem to remember that brown is my natural hair color, but I forget. In any event, sometime in the Jurassic, I started highlighting my hair. It was long enough ago that highlights didn’t require a second mortgage.

But no matter, some women are vain enough to pay anything to look good, and she would be me. I figured my highlights were a cost of doing business. In fact, I named my company Smart Blonde, so highlights were practically a job requirement, if not a uniform.

In fact, maybe highlights are deductible.

Just kidding, IRS.

(I know they’ll really laugh at that one. They have a great sense of humor.)

Anyway, my hair appointment for new highlights is tomorrow, but I’m really wondering if it’s worth it. Not because of the money, or even the time, but because I’m starting to accept the fact that my hair is not only secretly brown, it’s secretly gray.

And so I’m thinking, maybe I should just let it go. Accept that I’m not only going gray, but I’m going brown, which I used to think was worse. And that maybe I should just accept myself as I am.

Or, in other words, give up.

Now, before I start getting nasty letters, let me just say that I love silvery gray hair on people. I know women who look terrific with all-over gray hair, but mine isn’t all-over yet. It’s coming only in patches, which looks like somebody spilled Clorox on my head.

You know you’re in trouble when your hair matches your laundry.

Also, my gray hair is growing in stiff and oddly straight, so it looks like it’s raising its hand.

But that might be my imagination.

And before you weigh in on this question, let me add the following:

I’m also deciding whether to start wearing my glasses, instead of contacts. Yes, if you check out the sparkly-eyed picture of me on the book, you’ll see me in contacts. Actually, I took them out right after the photo, because they’re annoying. Fast forward to being middle-aged, where any time you’re wearing your contacts, you have to wear your reading glasses, and so one way or the other, glasses are going to get you.

And I’m starting to think that’s okay, too. In other words, I may be accepting myself for the myopic beastie that I am.

Which is good.

Or I may merely be getting so lazy that I cannot be bothered to look my best.

Which is not so good.

Because in addition to gray hair and nearsightedness, I also accept that I don’t have the answers to many things. For example, I just drove home from NYC and I don’t know the difference between the EZ-Pass lane and the Express EZ-Pass lane.

Life isn’t always EZ.

Column Classic: Perking Up

April 6, 2025

By Lisa Scottoline

Mommy has a new wish.

Besides Bradley Cooper.

We’re talking coffee.

And I’m on a quest.

I know, some people climb Everest.

Others cure cancer.

But all I want is a delicious cup of coffee that I can make myself, at home.

Is that so much to ask?

Evidently.

Right out front, I have to confess that I love Dunkin’ Donuts coffee.

Sometimes I’ll have Starbucks and other times Wawa, but my coffee soulmate is Dunkin’.

We’ve been together longer than either of my marriages combined.

Daughter Francesca likes to tell the story of the time we were watching television and a Dunkin’ Donuts commercial came on, and I whispered, “I love you, Dunkin’ Donuts.”

Okay, that’s embarrassing enough.

But then Francesca tweeted that to Dunkin’ Donuts, and Dunkin’ Donuts tweeted back:

“We love you too, Lisa!”

OMG!!!!!

Anyway, you get the idea.

So I stop by Dunkin’ Donuts whenever I can and I also pick up a lottery ticket. When I lose the lottery, at least I’ve had a great cup of coffee, which makes me almost as happy.

You’re supposed to be able to make Dunkin’ Donuts at home, and I have a Keurig coffeemaker, so I bought the Dunkin’ Donuts K-Cups and did the whole Keurig thing, but it wasn’t the same as the real thing.

And unfortunately, I developed almost a superstitious belief that a cup of great coffee is essential to my writing process. I’m not the first writer to believe that a beverage is essential to great fiction. Ernest Hemingway had booze, but I have caffeine. And when my good luck charm is on shaky ground, I fear my books will start to suck, and Mrs. Bradley Cooper can’t have that.

So I decided that I would give up on making Dunkin’ Donuts at home and try different types of coffee. I understand this is called being flexible, but it’s not something that comes easily to me.

Nor should it.

One of the great things about being single is that you never have to compromise anything, and I wasn’t looking forward to compromising my one and only vice.

Nevertheless, I decided I should go back to basics, namely percolated coffee. I admit this was probably nostalgia-driven, because I remember the days when Mother Mary perked coffee on the stovetop, brewing Maxwell House from a can, but I couldn’t find a stovetop percolator and had to settle for a plug-in, and I thought I could beat Maxwell House, so I got myself to the grocery store, where I stood before a dizzying array of types of coffee, coming from everywhere around the globe, including Africa, Arabia, and the Pacific.

This was coffee with frequent-flier mileage.

Likewise there were different kinds of roasts – light, dark, French, Italian, and Extra Dark French, which sounded vaguely racist.

I went with medium Italian, because that’s basically what I am.

Then I had to choose the “body” of the coffee, which evidently meant “the weight of the coffee on your tongue.”

Everywhere you look, body issues.

Again I chose the light-to-medium bodied, ground it at the store, brought it home, perked it, and it sucked. I persevered for another week, but I couldn’t do it. I decided to throw out the baby with the coffee water and went back further to my roots to buy a little Italian Bialetti espresso maker, perked on the stovetop. But that meant I had to go back to the grocery store and start all over again, since the new coffeemaker required the moka grind, which is not even a word.

I brought the coffee home, perked it, and took a sip.

It sucked, too.

Or maybe I suck at flexibility.

So now I don’t know what to do.

I’m taking any and all suggestions.

And I have a novel to finish.

Tell me how to make a great cup of coffee.

The future of literature depends upon it.

Also my job. I’ll split the Powerball with you.

Sign Up for Lisa's Newsletters!