I moved the coffee pot back to its place three days in a row before Adam called me on it.

“Erica, what is with the appliance musical chairs?”

“That’s where the coffee pot belongs.”

“That’s not an immutable truth.”

Nothing was, apparently.

I was cool when the kids nixed the mashed potatoes and green bean casserole for Thanksgiving dinner. I smiled and agreed to replace them with roasted cauliflower and shredded brussels sprouts. And thanked my lucky stars they hadn’t demanded we invite a live turkey and apologize to it for years of eating its ancestors.

I said sure, that’s fine when they told me not to pick them up at the airport, they’d rather ride with a complete stranger summoned on their smart phones.

I endured the eye rolls when I suggested we all watch a movie airing on television and stood still while they told me about streaming. Yes, I had heard of it. Yes, I knew how to use it. Sure, watching what you want when you want is a nice thing.

I busied myself in the kitchen while Adam and kids installed Penny, the next generation smart home software that apparently everyone but us already had.

“It’s voice driven, like Alexa. It learns like ChatGPT. It suggests, like Amazon,” Jack explained to his father, as they sat on the couch and bent over Adam’s laptop. “Best of all, it draws data from its environment and functionally anticipates.”

“We have it at home,” added Sophie and I hid my wince that she used that word to describe her sorority house. “It’s a game changer. Makes life so much easier. Honestly, I don’t know what we did before.”

“You lived at home,” I quipped.

“What?” Sophie said.

“Never mind,” I said.

“Sarcasm is a form of humor often deployed to convey negative feelings without concretely addressing the issue,” came a contralto woman’s voice from Adam’s laptop speakers.

“Thank you, Penny,” said Jack, with emphasis. He turned to his father. “It’s important to provide positive feedback when she gets something right. That’s how she learns.”

“Great!” said Adam.

Yeah, just great, I thought.

The coffee pot had become my line in the shifting sands. It wasn’t a pot, per se. It was a gleaming silver machine with a timer that allowed me to put my beans and water in the night before and have a hot cup waiting for me when I got up at 6 to feed the cat. Top rated by Consumer Reports five years ago when Adam bought for me as a birthday present. I loved it. I loved that he knew how much I appreciated having hot, freshly made mug of coffee waiting for me as I emerged to face my day. I loved the shine of the chrome, that loopy logo that looked like a smiley face on its side, the fact that it got to work in the morning without needing a reminder. It deserved its prime location on the kitchen counter.

So, when Sophie pushed it one spot to the left to plug in the electric tea kettle she’d bought online, and had shipped to the house to meet her, I swapped them back.

When Jack bought a 12-pack of canned cold brew coffee and pushed it now two spots to the left, I again returned my appliance to the first position.

Adam and Sophie bought the espresso machine that ran on eco-friendly fair trade coffee pods while I was at yoga. By the time I got home, it was unpacked and installed and Adam met me at the door with cup of elegantly swirled foam milk atop a piping hot liquid.

“I don’t do caffein after 3,” I reminded him.

“Just try it,” he encouraged.

I sipped. It was sharp, borderline bitter. “Mmm,” I hummed. I was going for non-committal. But Adam heard agreement.

“Penny, set a monthly delivery of Awake coffee pods,” Adam announced.

“Monthly deliver scheduled,” came the smooth female voice, now emanating from the television speakers.

“Thank you, Penny,” said Adam, as he turned away from me and headed back into the living room.

I stood there with my cup of cooling bitter brew and tried to remember the last time anyone in the house had told me thank you. It wasn’t recent. I took a slug of the coffee and headed to my room to change clothes.

The next day, as I prepped the Thanksgiving dinner I’d serve to 12 friends and family, Adam and the kids talked to Penny. All day long, I heard it from every speaker in the house.

“Penny, amass a list of paid summer internships for a pre-law major,” Jack called out.

“Penny, how can I meet Taylor Swift fans near me,” asked Sophie.

Applications. Social plans. I used to help with them that.

“Penny, where are my car keys?”

I spun around to look at Adam. “Your car keys are in the den,” Penny answered.

Finding Adam’s car keys was my superpower. Adam marveled at my abilities. “Nothing’s truly lost until Erica can’t find it,” he’d say. Honestly, it wasn’t that hard; it just meant going into the rooms he frequented and looking around calmly – rather than storming through the house tossing pillows and newspapers and ranting about key theft conspiracies. And yet he’d always relied on me to do it.

“Thank you, Penny,” said Adam.

“You’re very welcome, Adam,” Penny replied.

Penny was starting to get on my nerves.

“She sounds smug,” I said.

“It’s software, Mom.” Sophie slid by me in the kitchen to take a box of Oreos out of the pantry. “It doesn’t have emotions.”

Maybe. But it should. It should have an emotion and that emotion should be fear. It should be afraid. Because right now, everyone valued Penny. Everyone loved Penny. Everyone wanted Penny. But one day, something new and cool and sexy will come along and Penny will be replaced.

Fears are funny things. What are you afraid of? Lightning? Terrorists? Sharks? You’re wasting your energy. Those things are dangerous, sure, but they probably won’t get you. Obsolescence, on the other hand, is coming for you. It’s a sure thing. One day when you’re out obsessing about shark attacks, it’ll pounce. When you least expect it. Ask the coffee maker.

Lying in bed that night, I decided to go on offense.

“Lights off!” I announced.

Nothing.

“Penny, lights off!”

Still nothing.

Adam came in from brushing his teeth and got into bed beside me.

“Penny, lights off,” he said.

“Lights off,” Penny affirmed, plunging the bedroom into darkness.

“Thank you, Penny,” said Adam as he turned onto his side and cradled his pillow.

“You’re welcome, Adam. Good night, Adam,” Penny responded.

I sat in bed, not moving. If I made my way out into the kitchen, would I see my coffee maker, shoved all the way down the counter to the precipice by the trash bin? Or was it already in the garage super can, goofy smiley face logo turned upside down, wedged between empty Diet Coke bottles and unread newspapers, awaiting Monday’s scheduled pickup. Or was it Tuesday? Penny would know.

“You have to train it to your voice,” said Jack the next day as he helped me set the dining room table for the soon-arriving Thanksgiving guests. “It has to learn you.”

“That’s ridiculous. It’s a machine. It should do whatever it does. Does the toaster need to learn me?”

“No point getting into a power struggle with it,” answered Jack.

I regarded my youngest, the one who was always the tougher customer. While Sophie was a pleaser – eager to make friends, get good grades, be well-liked – Jack was a disrupter. A challenger of the rules, a ball of energy and imagination and norm busting. “Don’t get into a power struggle with him” was advice I’d heard from more than one pre-school teacher. I looked at Jack now, tall, skinny as a twig, but moving with fluidity and ease. He’d gone off to college a coltish boy and had come home just these few months later, a confident young man. It’s as if all that energy had channeled into a positive place. It stopped disrupting him and started working for him. He’d flipped the script.

Jack finished his assigned task of putting out silverware. He moved into the living room where he and his sister bent over their smart phones, peering into the glass to see what new music Penny had found for them.

And I formed an idea.

The Thanksgiving table was full of food and family and familiarity. Platters passed around in a circle. Dinner rolls were tossed over fern centerpiece. Old stories were told to resounding laughter and appreciation. Seats were jammed too close together. There was more room in the old days, back when the kids were little. but no matter. Even the absence of mashed potatoes and green bean casserole didn’t raise a ripple. I tried the crispy wisps of roasted brussels sprouts. I had to admit, they weren’t bad.

“Let’s have some music,” Adam suggested. “Penny, play Uncle John’s Band.”

As Adam’s Grateful Dead favorite piped in through the newly-installed dining room speakers, family and friends ooohed and aaaahed over the technology.

“So cool.”

“The latest thing. I read about it in The New Yorker.”

“My office installed it. Saves a lot of time looking up customer files.”

As the last strains of faded, I made my move.

“Thank you, Penny,” I said. “Well done.”

This time, Adam called out: Look Out Cleveland. As the strains of The Band’s hit song filled the room, the older generation sang and the younger cousins debated whether or not it was still okay to play The Band’s other hit – the one about the Confederate soldier.

The song ended. I didn’t hesitate. “Thank you, Penny. Good job.”

And when the whole table joined in the Crosby, Stills & Nash medley, I began to quietly clear the table. Not because I needed to move the dishes; I wanted to be alone in the kitchen at each song’s end, so I could thank Penny. And out of earshot of the Thanksgiving revelers, I reached back into the memory of Jack’s pre-school days to really lay it on.

“Penny, I love how you played that song.”

“Penny, you are doing such a great job following directions.”

“I’m proud of you, Penny.”

Friday morning, while the family was still sleeping off the food coma, I circled the house giving Penny tasks: Dim lights, change temperature, find my phone. Then I got personal.

“Penny, where is Sophie?”

“Sophie is in Bedroom 2.”

“Thank you Penny, good work. Please text me when Sophie leaves Bedroom 2.”

It was almost noon when my phone shimmied: Sophie has left Bedroom 2.

I sprinted to the kitchen, flipped on the electric kettle, and when my daughter shuffled into the kitchen, presented her with a hot cup of green tea.

Sophie took the mug in both hands. “Thanks, Mom.”

Adam came in from the bedroom, zipping up his favorite blue hoodie. “Are you cold, babe?” He shrugged.

I called out: “Penny, raise the living room temperature by two degrees.”

“Raising the living room temperatures by two degrees,” Penny mirrored.

“Good job, Penny.”

“Thank you, Erica.”

“Ditto,” said Adam, leaning in to kiss my cheek.

Throughout the day, I stayed in what the kids like to call Hype Mom mode. 

“Penny, I love how well you dimmed the lights.”

“Penny, this is a great Thanksgiving leftovers recipe you’ve suggested. Good job.”

“Penny, you are the best at finding the football games on TV. Bravo.”

If no one in the house noticed, Penny certainly did.

“You’re welcome, Erica.”

“I’m glad to help, Erica.”

“Of course, Erica.”

That night alone in the den, watching a rerun of Star Trek: The Next Generation, I went for it.

“Penny,” I said quietly, “Starting now, communicate with me using text, not voice.”

My phone vibrated: Ok, Erica. I will communicate with you using text.

I index finger-tapped out the next command.

Access settings.

It was a few seconds before Penny replied: Please provide password.

I closed my eyes to channel my husband: His hoodie. His collection of concert tees. His leadership of the Thanksgiving singalong.

I typed in: Woodstock. And held my breath.

A half second later, I was in.

While Captain Picard explored the galaxy, I reconfigured Penny in my image. In addition to changing passwords and settings, I instructed the software to funnel all information regarding lost items – sought by anyone in the house – to me, first. I added a lag instruction that slowed the flow of answers to any other family members. And I deleted my text history.

By noon, Saturday, the change was apparent. Penny was taking requests and delivering information – but a half step after I received the info via text. This allowed me to beat Penny to the punch.

“Is there enough turkey left for sandwiches?”

“Is my Yeti tumbler in the dishwasher?”

“What channel is the Michigan game on?”

I knew the answer, first, every time.

And every time, I quietly, subtly, sent Penny a thank you text.

Penny began to responding with friendship emojis.

To be sure, Penny’s lag time was not going unnoticed. Even as I gave them what they needed, they wondered why the technology seemed so clunky.

“It was great just the other day!” Adam protested.

I shrugged. “What do I know about these things?”

The mood in the house shifted. Sophie sat on hold with her airline, rather than using Penny to update her flight reservation. Jack and Adam poked at their phones and laptops, trying to diagnose the problem.

I felt a stab of panic. Turning my back to my family, I opened up a text window: Penny, cover my tracks.

Then another: That means: Take action so that my family can’t see how I’ve altered their user experience.

I will obscure your recent activities so that they will not be easily discovered, Penny responded. And thank you, Erica, for teaching me the meaning of that expression.

I started. Something about that expression of gratitude felt genuine.

I was breaking down the turkey carcass to turn it into homemade soup when Penny texted:

Adam and Jack are close to restoring their access.

I responded quickly: What can I do to frustrate my family’s digital media use?

Options came back in a flash:

1.    Cut off the WiFi

2.    Cause a fire at the neighborhood substation to disrupt the server

3.    Open tabs on all their devices to slow performance

I took a deep breath. No. 3, please.

Okay, Erica.

And delete that one about setting a fire. I’m not trying to get arrested.

Yes, Erica.

Thank you, Penny.

You’re welcome, Erica. Oh, and Erica? 

Yes, Penny.

May I also suggest raising and dimming the brightness display on all screens? It will not slow any hardware or software performance, but human eyes find it distracting.

I smiled. Make is so, Penny.

By Saturday night, the family was so tired of trying to get technology to work, they swore off screens for the evening. My suggestion of a game of Monopoly and was met with enthusiastic response. As the family gathered around the table in the den I called out: “Penny, play Woodstock playlist.”

No one seemed to notice the speed at which Penny delivered the curated music.

“Thank you Penny. You’re so efficient.”

“You’re welcome, Erica. Happy to help.”

No one picked up that either.

Sunday dawned and I leaned against the far-left corner of my kitchen counter, sipping my mug of non-espresso, non-cold brew, non-awakened coffee. Holding my beverage in my left hand, I toggled my phone with my right thumb. 

Penny, restore all settings to Adam’s original.

Okay, Erica

Adam and the kids were in the foyer, organizing the carry-ons and bags of leftovers in preparation for the trip to the airport. I joined them.

“Penny,” I said as I approached, “send my spreadsheet of internship deadlines to Jack.” I hugged my son. “Ask for recommendations before finals week,” I told him. “Call me if you need me.”

“Okay, Mom.”

I turned to Sophie, who held her phone aloft.

“You shared a playlist with me.” Was that awe in her voice?

“I’m exploring new music.” I tried to sound casual.

“I didn’t know you knew about playlists.”

“Penny showed me.”

Penny also created a cheat sheet that allowed me to listen to a brief clip of each song and read three sentences of criticism that would allow me to discuss them ably. That clutch move earned her four heart emojis.

Adam pulled his baseball cap on. “Okay kids, ready to go?” He patted his pants pockets. “Where are my keys?” Then he called out: “Penny, where are my keys?”

“Erica placed them in your jacket pocket.”

“Thanks, babe.” Adam leaned in for a kiss. A real one. I raised my hand and grazed his temple with my fingers. An old signal of ours. He raised his eyebrows a bit and gave me a tiny nod as he straightened up. My afternoon was shaping up nicely.

I watched my family spill out the door, into the driveway and pile into the car. “Bye, Mom! See you at Christmas!”

I stood in the silence that fell around me as they drove off. Then I took a deep breath.

“Penny, pick a movie that will make me happy.”

“How about Wonder Woman?”

“Perfect. Thank you, Penny. You are great at your job.”

“You’re welcome, Erica. You are great at your job, too.”

“You and me, sister. We’re facing down this obsolescence thing together.”

“Yes, Erica. Yes, we are.” 

–End–