I started this day -- this first Monday in July -- the way I start each day. I put on a pot of coffee.
The coffee maker we are using is an old Krups. It dribbles on each and every pour and neither of us can explain why we moved it when we relocated very nearly a year ago.
In the late fall the handle broke on carafe for the KitchenAid we liked so much. It was old enough that a new carafe could not be procured. So, some eight months ago I dragged out the messy Krups and we've used it -- along with a dishcloth, sponge, paper towel -- ever since.
I've threatened a new coffee maker. We've both admired the Keruig brewers many of our family and friends use. What could be nicer than a fresh cup of coffee with every cup? The octane or the flavor or the specific roast we desire no matter what anyone else preferred? It sounds odd to say, but I take delight in the groaning whirr the Keruig makes. Reminds me of the lion guards in "The Wizard of Oz." Oh-we-oh.
But, here I am, still running 12 cups into the carafe and scooping half a cup of ground coffee into the cone filter, assembling all the moving parts, and waiting ten minutes or so.
It isn't that I like the old so much. It's that full pot -- and all the full pots of memory. Like the one out of which my very first cup of coffee came at the South Carolina United Methodist Camp. Observing that momentous decision, before my friend poured the camp director had the cream and sugar moved away from where I was sitting, saying if I were going to learn to drink coffee on his watch I would learn to drink it right. Black. Have never looked back.
Like the one years later in a nameless café in Alexandria, Virginia, where I and several of my seminary friends went after being up almost all night finishing our systematic theology papers. The night was so cold our glasses fogged up when we stepped inside. The waitress wanted to hear all about life on "The Hill." The aroma of that coffee and the atmosphere of the place are a part of me.
I could go on, but will spare you and me both.
Tal and I might make the move to a single serve brewer one day. Most likely that will be when we don't want more than one cup each morning any more and don't relish any leftovers becoming iced coffee later in the day. In the meantime, however, maybe we could invest in a coffee maker that doesn't leave a little sea of coffee on the counter with every pour.
But, no matter what, I suspect that when I think coffee for the remainder of my days it'll be a pot I have in mind no matter how the brew comes my way.
The coffee maker we are using is an old Krups. It dribbles on each and every pour and neither of us can explain why we moved it when we relocated very nearly a year ago.
In the late fall the handle broke on carafe for the KitchenAid we liked so much. It was old enough that a new carafe could not be procured. So, some eight months ago I dragged out the messy Krups and we've used it -- along with a dishcloth, sponge, paper towel -- ever since.
I've threatened a new coffee maker. We've both admired the Keruig brewers many of our family and friends use. What could be nicer than a fresh cup of coffee with every cup? The octane or the flavor or the specific roast we desire no matter what anyone else preferred? It sounds odd to say, but I take delight in the groaning whirr the Keruig makes. Reminds me of the lion guards in "The Wizard of Oz." Oh-we-oh.
But, here I am, still running 12 cups into the carafe and scooping half a cup of ground coffee into the cone filter, assembling all the moving parts, and waiting ten minutes or so.
It isn't that I like the old so much. It's that full pot -- and all the full pots of memory. Like the one out of which my very first cup of coffee came at the South Carolina United Methodist Camp. Observing that momentous decision, before my friend poured the camp director had the cream and sugar moved away from where I was sitting, saying if I were going to learn to drink coffee on his watch I would learn to drink it right. Black. Have never looked back.
Like the one years later in a nameless café in Alexandria, Virginia, where I and several of my seminary friends went after being up almost all night finishing our systematic theology papers. The night was so cold our glasses fogged up when we stepped inside. The waitress wanted to hear all about life on "The Hill." The aroma of that coffee and the atmosphere of the place are a part of me.
I could go on, but will spare you and me both.
Tal and I might make the move to a single serve brewer one day. Most likely that will be when we don't want more than one cup each morning any more and don't relish any leftovers becoming iced coffee later in the day. In the meantime, however, maybe we could invest in a coffee maker that doesn't leave a little sea of coffee on the counter with every pour.
But, no matter what, I suspect that when I think coffee for the remainder of my days it'll be a pot I have in mind no matter how the brew comes my way.
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