Birthright

Dovi’s eyebrows creased in concentration as he measured out 28 grams of coffee beans, imported from Gedeo Zone, Ethiopia, and inserted them into the grinder. He then turned to the kettle screeching on the stovetop. “The only kavanah I’m having,” he mumbled to no one, “is to not melt my hand off.”

Mordy always insisted on an actual kettle rather than any of the more modern heating apparatuses — “it needs to be a mevushal with all the hiddurim” — was his expression, and Dovi dutifully poured the boiling water over the freshly ground beans and watched the thick brown liquid trickle through the filter into the waiting thermos below.

He swiftly clamped on the cover and checked his watch. One thirty. Mordy’s flight landed at two and it took just under an hour to get to the airport. He envisioned Mordy and Gitty staggering over to the baggage carousel, lunging desperately after each black, unmarked duffel bag. Finally, they would feel satisfied enough to crack open the zipper, whereupon a pile of seforim would come tumbling out. Dovi had time, he knew, but not tons of it.

He grabbed the thermos, about to head out, then paused and raced down the stairs to the guestroom. He knocked lightly on the door.