Breakfast at Graceland: Crepes on Granite

“Mom’s making crepes,” the little girl says.

“Great,” I say.

“What do you like on your crepes?” she asks.

“Veal tenderloin,” I say.

“OK, I’ll go tell her,” the little girl says, running off to place my breakfast order.

Here at our little Graceland, we love to eat. So after 20 years of marriage, some more sensational than others, I am finally giving my wife the kitchen she deserves--a place to stuff crepes and season a steak, a place to make love and school lunches.

OK, maybe not love. But every other goopy dish you crave. Here at Graceland, food is how we show affection.

“Mom’s making manicotti,” the little girl says.

“Yum.”

“What do you want with it?” she asks.

“Milkshakes,” I say.

In a week, the old kitchen will be gone. Then they’ll bring in a new kitchen. It’ll be like magic how quickly it all happens.

“Oh, you’re renovating?” a neighbor asks after contractors deliver a gigantic dumpster.

“Yes.”

“It’ll be chaos,” the neighbor predicts.

Thanks. But we’re used to chaos. We have chaos for breakfast, along with three kinds of cereal, muffins, oatmeal, melon, fresh strawberries, Easter candy and piping-hot coffee made with this fancy new machine my wife received for Christmas.

Of course, it’s not just an ordinary coffeemaker. Nothing’s ordinary anymore.

“This thing takes forever to clean,” I say.

“It’s worth it,” my wife says.

Another unsatisfying spousal reply, delivered from a foot away, by my bride of two decades--the one with the Marlo Thomas eyes. From a foot away, maybe less. In the movies, that’s kissing distance.

“I don’t even like coffee,” I growl.

“Because you still drink Bosco,” she growls back.

Ever notice the Doppler Effect of marriage? The closer you get, the worse you communicate?

From a room away, we seem to get along fine. Then, as we close the distance between us, something happens to raise the tension. Train whistles blow. Bells clang. Then all marriage breaks loose.

“This coffee maker has 20 parts,” I complain.

“So?”

“Where do I put this?” I say, holding up a plastic funnel.

“Don’t tempt me,” my wife warns.

It’s a tricky project, a new kitchen. There is plumbing and electricity to deal with. Flooring. Cabinets. Lighting.

Most important, proper spacing. You don’t want a kitchen so big that you’re not bumping backsides. Bumping backsides is one of the little pleasures a kitchen gives. Plus it heightens the illusion of togetherness that is so important in a modern relationship.

“Hey quit bumping me,” I tell her.

“You’re bumping me,” my bride says.

“If you insist,” I say.

Along the counter, like squares of toast, my wife has placed several little pieces of granite. They’re samples for the new granite countertops we’re considering, more stuff we can’t afford.

To this day, I’m not sure how we managed to afford this tiny house in the leafy suburb, let alone this renovation. We’re probably paying in manicotti. With side orders of crepes.

“I think I like the dark gray,” my wife says, tilting her head as she studies the granite samples. “You?”

“Yellow Formica,” I say.

To me, there’s nothing really wrong with the current kitchen. Built in 1443, it has a scruffy charm. Pirates once owned it. For a while, it housed sheep. Then a couple who subscribed to Car & Driver magazine.

After 500 years, the kitchen now smells of scrambled eggs even when we’re not having scrambled eggs. It takes centuries of bad breakfasts to acquire a smell like that. The patina on our Acropolis.

“Maybe I like this one,” my wife says, studying a second granite sample.

“Perfect,” I say. “We’ll look like the Luxor.”

“This is serious,” she says rather seriously.

Yes, this is serious. It’s serious because our friends Hank and Martha have granite countertops. Don and Kate, too. Everyone seems to have granite countertops, and if we don’t get some soon, some other new surface might come along and we’d miss out on this unnecessary but expensive trend. Granite, the stuff of kitchen counters and tombstones.

“I love Bill and Nancy’s counters,” says my wife.

“Bill’s a Republican,” I say, explaining the various caste systems involved.

“And Nancy doesn’t work,” she reminds me.

Yes, but my wife does. So I guess she’s going to get her granite countertops. Hank and Martha. Bill and Nancy. Don and Kate. The whole world’s gone granite. Why not us?

Because here at Graceland, granite is how we show affection.

*

Chris Erskine’s column is published on Wednesdays. His e-mail address is chris.erskine@latimes.com.