Recently, like yesterday (which is as close to recent as one can get except for today) we got a Melitta Drip Coffee Pot. It is not electric, so you have to heat the water first and then pour the water into the cone shaped basket/filter filled with finely ground coffee. What took me so long?
I consider myself a coffee snob (Gourmet??) and the first cup in the morning is tantamount to a religious experience.
With eyes half closed and a body that will not stand erect, I stumble each morning into the kitchen to assemble the makings of my caffeine addiction.
With an electric maker, you just have to pour water into the reservoir, put a filter in the basket, and put the coffee in the filter and turn it on. It does the rest.
If you are like me, you GRIND the dark, oily beans each and every time you make a pot. None of that pre-ground stuff for this snob.
Waiting gives you ample time to wash your face, slather it with moisturizer (so you don't get wrinkles-which is a whole other blog subject), fill the cat bowls, find a robe, get a cup and by that time the coffee is ready. You can even pause the dripping process to cheat and get a cup before it is completely done. Convenient, yes, but something is missing. What is it? Oh, I know-FLAVOR!! It does not matter what kind of beans I buy or who roasts them-Starbucks is just like Peet's is just like SLO is just like Green Mountain. You get the idea. They all look and smell wonderful. The dark, almost black oily beans, pungent aroma and eye popping. Something was always missing. It did not matter which coffee maker I had. Mr. Coffee, Black and Decker, Proctor Silex, Krups, Braun. etc, they all tasted the same. The coffee was hot and smelled like coffee but the flavor was just NOT there. It was not full of the wake me up, put lead in my pencil (that phrase was my fathers and while it really does not work for a female, I still chose to use it for literary purposes-so you get the drift.) get me started on my day that I NEED. Now need really does matter here. I gave up caffeine once. I was told by a doctor after he found a lump on one of my breasts that I had fibro cystic breast disease-lumps caused by among other things, caffeine. Apparently these lumps permeated my mammary glands that sometimes cannot be distinguished from lumps that may need a biopsy. But I digress...back to coffee. I slowly weaned myself from this magnificent dark brown morning ritual. Weaning oneself is NOT an easy task. If you do not do this slowly and methodically, you will get a headache, the like of which you have never had before. Head exploding, eye bulging, ear ringing headaches. Not to mention you walked around in a fog all day. I already suffered from migraines periodically and definitely did not intend to add insult to injury. No coffee, no cokes, no chocolate! WAIT! NO CHOCOLATE! Oh to hell with lumpy boobs. I cannot live without caffeine. I NEED caffeine. I CRAVE caffeine. I'd STEAL for caffeine! You probably have guessed by now that life without caffeine for me, was not an option.
It was not merely the drinking of it. I missed the aroma, the ritual of each morning. A cup of Joe and the morning paper allowed me time to wake up and begin a new day. De-Caf just did not get it. I drink it for the caffeine. I like the caffeine. I NEED the caffeine. Even if after one cup you end up peeing about a gazillion times. Why is that, anyway?
Where was I? Oh yes, the Melitta. My sister had (maybe still does) a great drip coffee maker, Chemex and Melitta is the Chemex's poor cousin. I gave the old Mr. C (we are close enough for me to call Mr. Coffee, Mr. C) a good cleaning and telling him that I might come back someday, (well, I MIGHT) and packed him away. I placed the shining, unstained Melitta on the counter, who by the way was acting a bit smug knowing she had banished Mr. C to some Gulag somewhere. I put in the cone shaped filter, seemingly made this way for the sole purpose of ensuring that all the coffee is covered once you pour the water in. I ground my new favorite roast of coffee beans, SLO's Rocket very fine, per the instructions. Now I just have to wait for the water on the stove to get hot. I really must get a teapot for this. Sitting half asleep, this is an arduous task. Mr. C allows one to get all this ready the night before-the water and everything -and all you have to do is turn the button on.
Still quite groggy from a nights sound sleep, the cat bowls taken care of, the face is washed and moisturized, the robe is wrapped around my half dead feeling body, I waited. Mr. C was on my mind because he never kept me waiting so long. Or so it seemed. I was just about to give into Mr. C's demands that could be heard, albeit a bit muffled from the box I had him in,when the water was ready. I slowly poured the water over the finely ground beans. It began to drip slowly. I added more water into the cone filter as it dripped through completely saturating each lovely ground bean. Mr. C's demands were now secondary to the task at hand. My mouth was watering for a taste of what I could smell was going to be great tasting Rocket coffee. After all this IS what I am after. That dripping was music to my ears. The aroma was overwhelming. The coffee looked like-OMG-COFFEE! But the true test would be in the taste.
IT WAS WONDERFUL! It tasted rich, robust, no bitterness. The flavor was distinguishable from just plain coffee. THIS is how coffee is supposed to taste.
I can now taste the difference from French Roast and Sumatra. From Rocket to Stormin' Norman', from Chatterbox to Morning Fog Lifter. One cup was no longer a given. I could drink the whole pot.
Of course now, instead of peeing a gazillion times, I spend most of my day in the bathroom. I may not be able to blog again. But I AM drinking really good, flavorful coffee. The trade off is worth it. AT least while living near a bathroom, I am totally awake.
Monday, November 29, 2010
Friday, October 29, 2010
Bookclubs are good for you
I love to read. I remember that little girl in 1st grade learning to read from the beloved "Dick and Jane" books. Oh what big stuff I was when I learned the word LOOK. I found it everywhere and drove everyone crazy pointing it out, relishing in my new found intelligence.
Reading opened up a whole new world. From a simple "Run Spot, Run" I devoured books and words like a ravenous animal at the neighborhood butchers.
One of the first things I did when I moved here was get a library card. There is something really magical about going into a library and coming out loaded with books. Armloads of books to read, to look through, to just feel the paper (yes, I have a paper fetish) and all for free.
Some books help shape your opinions, your ideals and some books you just read and enjoy. Yet, somehow they all stay with you, tucked away in your sub-conscious to appear one day unknowingly by correctly answering a Jeopardy clue. You ask yourself "How did I know that?" totally unaware that it was in a book that you read long ago. And then you remember, the time, the place, how old you were and you HAVE to have THAT book. OH how you loved THAT book. Is it as good today as it was when you read it those many years ago?
Books, like songs, food and certain aromas, have the ability to transport you back to a different time.
For me, the books that have had an impact are still relevant today. In the 3rd grade it was "I Was There At The Battle of Gettysburg" which started my life long love of Abraham Lincoln and historical books. I actually learned history without hearing a lecture or having to take a test. Marvelous!! At the time, my thirsty little brain could not know that I was reading to learn. I read everything I could find. How one little girl had written Lincoln a letter telling him that if he grew a beard, he would look kinder. I NEED that book again. From Lincoln I gravitated to Benjamin Franklin and " Ben and Me" about a rodent that lived in his hair and gave him advice. Creativity knew no bounds in teaching history.
Those early sojourns into history fueled my later passion for biographies, auto-biographies and historical fiction. The simple word LOOK had whetted my appetite for more, that to this day has me reading several books at once.
History and real life people invaded my life through books. Eventually I even threw in a bit of fiction to break up the seriousness of all the reality.
And then I discovered poetry. Those lovely, simple nursery rhymes with their sing song rhythms were easy to memorize. In a borrowed edition of the World Book Encyclopedia's Child Craft volumes, I found "Faeries at the Bottom of My Garden" and lo and behold, because I believed, they were there. Grandpa dropping his glasses in a pot of purple dye," I never saw a purple cow", "You are old Father William, the young man said", all in one amazing book and I recall them all. One poem in particular was the icing on my cake. It was Laura E. Richards "Dilliki Dolliki Dinah" Years later I could still quote the first few stanzas of that poem but could not recall who had written it. I inquired at the reference desk of the local library where I lived and with just my few memorized verses, that ingenious person found the author and I began the search for a set of Child Craft books that I did not have to return. I am pleased to inform you that I was successful and although I have since passed them to my daughter for her to share with my grandson, I still feel like a child when I turn those pages. They have followed me on my journey through life and gave me a early appreciation for the vastness of the poetic word.
Oh the illustrations back then...Arthur Rackham, Jessie Wilcox Smith, Kate Greenaway, Beatrix Potter, all the drawings to accompany the verses made them leap off the page and into my heart and brain for eternity.
The magic of childrens' poems still make me smile and I take every chance available to me to read them to any kid who will listen. James Whitcomb Riley with his "Raggedy Man" and"Little Orphant Annie", should be in every teacher's curriculum for kids and adults alike.
The early poets paved the way for more serious reading. Alfred, Lord Tennyson's "The Lady of Shalott", my favorite adult poem. With a poster depicting her adorning my wall in every place I live, that poor Lady and her heartbreaking curse can still move me each and every time I read it.
When puberty took over my being. I turned into a morose, dismal teenager and NOTHING spoke to me, except e.e. cummings. e.e.cummings and J.D. Salinger saved me back then and I thank them.
Nothing meant more to me as I became rebellious and unconventional than e.e. cummings lack of structured writings. I lived in his world of odd punctuation, run on words and sentences. I tried my hand at copying his form (most of which I still have) and voraciously kept his words close to my alienated heart. "the little lame balloonman whistles far and wee" ..."the boys i mean are not refined"...."in justspringtime".....Oh those magical, mystical hard to read words. And Shakespeare-do not get me started on Shakespeare, or Edgar Allen Poe, dark and tragical writings for obstinate me.
J.D. Salinger and "Franny and Zooey" meant the most to me, even more than "The Catcher in the Rye" and I still have copies of his works. In Nine Stories "A Perfect Day for Banana Fish" is a must read for me at least once a month. Of course there was Emily Dickinson and her reclusive poems, and Walt Whitman and his "Leaves of Grass" which led to Bukowski and Brautigan later in life. All of which I still love. I thirst for new poets with new ways to reveal the written word in thoughts that are theirs alone, but speak to me loudly and leave me hungering for more. Never enough time for reading and poetry.
In school I hated reading text books but would stay awake until 3 in the morning reading a good novel. On summer holidays, I recall lying in the sun, my body baking under California's Central Valley heat reading the day away. I would have theme reads. One time it was Harold Robbins and books of that nature and the next might be everything I could find on The Royal Family.
When I married young and had to spend time alone, the local library became a haven. I would begin at A in the biography section and read about movie actors and actresses working my way through the alphabet. I lived vicariously through then lives of Marion Davies, Greta Garbo, Bette Davis and Katherine Hepburn. I was in heaven.
As years went by, I changed locations, hobbies, and even husbands, but never changed the fact that books make my life pleasurable and wonderfully adventurous. So it is no surprise that when I moved to the Central Coast of California after over 30 years in the valley, I got a library card, checked out a ton of books and joined two book clubs. I've met great women who read alot like me, even if we differ in what we like to read. We discuss what a particular book says to us, whether we liked it or not and if at times we do go off course and talk about un-book related topics like grandchildren and illnesses., we eventually end with a new book for the next time we meet. Although it is the love of the written word that takes me to these meetings, it is the sense of community that helps make it even more necessary than I could have ever imagined. I am reading books I would have never chosen myself, I am making friends where I had no friends before and I am still learning at 62. I love bookclubs and books and libraries and think everyone should belong to one or create one.
Bookclubs ARE good for you.
My recommendation-read two chapters and call me in the morning,
Reading opened up a whole new world. From a simple "Run Spot, Run" I devoured books and words like a ravenous animal at the neighborhood butchers.
One of the first things I did when I moved here was get a library card. There is something really magical about going into a library and coming out loaded with books. Armloads of books to read, to look through, to just feel the paper (yes, I have a paper fetish) and all for free.
Some books help shape your opinions, your ideals and some books you just read and enjoy. Yet, somehow they all stay with you, tucked away in your sub-conscious to appear one day unknowingly by correctly answering a Jeopardy clue. You ask yourself "How did I know that?" totally unaware that it was in a book that you read long ago. And then you remember, the time, the place, how old you were and you HAVE to have THAT book. OH how you loved THAT book. Is it as good today as it was when you read it those many years ago?
Books, like songs, food and certain aromas, have the ability to transport you back to a different time.
For me, the books that have had an impact are still relevant today. In the 3rd grade it was "I Was There At The Battle of Gettysburg" which started my life long love of Abraham Lincoln and historical books. I actually learned history without hearing a lecture or having to take a test. Marvelous!! At the time, my thirsty little brain could not know that I was reading to learn. I read everything I could find. How one little girl had written Lincoln a letter telling him that if he grew a beard, he would look kinder. I NEED that book again. From Lincoln I gravitated to Benjamin Franklin and " Ben and Me" about a rodent that lived in his hair and gave him advice. Creativity knew no bounds in teaching history.
Those early sojourns into history fueled my later passion for biographies, auto-biographies and historical fiction. The simple word LOOK had whetted my appetite for more, that to this day has me reading several books at once.
History and real life people invaded my life through books. Eventually I even threw in a bit of fiction to break up the seriousness of all the reality.
And then I discovered poetry. Those lovely, simple nursery rhymes with their sing song rhythms were easy to memorize. In a borrowed edition of the World Book Encyclopedia's Child Craft volumes, I found "Faeries at the Bottom of My Garden" and lo and behold, because I believed, they were there. Grandpa dropping his glasses in a pot of purple dye," I never saw a purple cow", "You are old Father William, the young man said", all in one amazing book and I recall them all. One poem in particular was the icing on my cake. It was Laura E. Richards "Dilliki Dolliki Dinah" Years later I could still quote the first few stanzas of that poem but could not recall who had written it. I inquired at the reference desk of the local library where I lived and with just my few memorized verses, that ingenious person found the author and I began the search for a set of Child Craft books that I did not have to return. I am pleased to inform you that I was successful and although I have since passed them to my daughter for her to share with my grandson, I still feel like a child when I turn those pages. They have followed me on my journey through life and gave me a early appreciation for the vastness of the poetic word.
Oh the illustrations back then...Arthur Rackham, Jessie Wilcox Smith, Kate Greenaway, Beatrix Potter, all the drawings to accompany the verses made them leap off the page and into my heart and brain for eternity.
The magic of childrens' poems still make me smile and I take every chance available to me to read them to any kid who will listen. James Whitcomb Riley with his "Raggedy Man" and"Little Orphant Annie", should be in every teacher's curriculum for kids and adults alike.
The early poets paved the way for more serious reading. Alfred, Lord Tennyson's "The Lady of Shalott", my favorite adult poem. With a poster depicting her adorning my wall in every place I live, that poor Lady and her heartbreaking curse can still move me each and every time I read it.
When puberty took over my being. I turned into a morose, dismal teenager and NOTHING spoke to me, except e.e. cummings. e.e.cummings and J.D. Salinger saved me back then and I thank them.
Nothing meant more to me as I became rebellious and unconventional than e.e. cummings lack of structured writings. I lived in his world of odd punctuation, run on words and sentences. I tried my hand at copying his form (most of which I still have) and voraciously kept his words close to my alienated heart. "the little lame balloonman whistles far and wee" ..."the boys i mean are not refined"...."in justspringtime".....Oh those magical, mystical hard to read words. And Shakespeare-do not get me started on Shakespeare, or Edgar Allen Poe, dark and tragical writings for obstinate me.
J.D. Salinger and "Franny and Zooey" meant the most to me, even more than "The Catcher in the Rye" and I still have copies of his works. In Nine Stories "A Perfect Day for Banana Fish" is a must read for me at least once a month. Of course there was Emily Dickinson and her reclusive poems, and Walt Whitman and his "Leaves of Grass" which led to Bukowski and Brautigan later in life. All of which I still love. I thirst for new poets with new ways to reveal the written word in thoughts that are theirs alone, but speak to me loudly and leave me hungering for more. Never enough time for reading and poetry.
In school I hated reading text books but would stay awake until 3 in the morning reading a good novel. On summer holidays, I recall lying in the sun, my body baking under California's Central Valley heat reading the day away. I would have theme reads. One time it was Harold Robbins and books of that nature and the next might be everything I could find on The Royal Family.
When I married young and had to spend time alone, the local library became a haven. I would begin at A in the biography section and read about movie actors and actresses working my way through the alphabet. I lived vicariously through then lives of Marion Davies, Greta Garbo, Bette Davis and Katherine Hepburn. I was in heaven.
As years went by, I changed locations, hobbies, and even husbands, but never changed the fact that books make my life pleasurable and wonderfully adventurous. So it is no surprise that when I moved to the Central Coast of California after over 30 years in the valley, I got a library card, checked out a ton of books and joined two book clubs. I've met great women who read alot like me, even if we differ in what we like to read. We discuss what a particular book says to us, whether we liked it or not and if at times we do go off course and talk about un-book related topics like grandchildren and illnesses., we eventually end with a new book for the next time we meet. Although it is the love of the written word that takes me to these meetings, it is the sense of community that helps make it even more necessary than I could have ever imagined. I am reading books I would have never chosen myself, I am making friends where I had no friends before and I am still learning at 62. I love bookclubs and books and libraries and think everyone should belong to one or create one.
Bookclubs ARE good for you.
My recommendation-read two chapters and call me in the morning,
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
In the beginning...
Is there anything as wonderful as the first cup of coffee in the morning while watching a new day begin? Probably, but this morning I could not think of one. That dark brown hot liquid opens my eyes just as the trees emerge at dawn, shimmering from last nights rain. Their branches stretching to greet the sun as a new day is born....as am I, born again this day. Not in the biblical sense, but mentally in this time and place.
Writing has always been a necessity for me. My thoughts, feelings and rants have been put on paper ever since I was a moody, maudlin teenager. Scraps of anything I could write on to capture a moment in time.. I have saved most of these. Some make no sense at all and some I can barely decipher as my writing was fast and furious.
Now that I am older and these hands do not cooperate like they used to, it becomes impossible to read what I write. I attempted to record these thoughts by typing, but I have never been adept at typing because #1- I have never mastered the skill without looking at the keyboard and #2- my mind races faster than my fingers can type. Alas, I will not give up (or in) and try again. The need is stronger now at this time to record my thoughts and memories. It is important to me, for my daughter, grandson, sisters, friends and new found family members to know me as I am now and how I have changed. I am not speaking of physical location, although THAT certainly has played a big part in my new found peace of mind and self awareness.While my past certainly plays a part of how I came to be, it does not define me nor has it allowed me to change, which I have-profoundly. I know this may sound self-serving and egocentric. This is not my intention. I want this to be a historical, insightful and personal view into one woman's life.
I wish my parents and grandparents, aunts and uncles would've had such a forum to let us see who they really were. All we have is our limited perception of who they were, what they did as evidenced by our relationship with them or from a photo taken long ago, allowing us to view them physically, but revealing little of who they really were.
The change in me has taken place slowly over the past two and a half years. Some of it profoundly eye opening, some of it subtle, but most of it a"sock it to me" blunt force, hard hitting smack in the face reality check. This was a force so strong I could not ignore it and believe me, I tried.
Looking over my life, my choices seem to follow the same patterns, yielding the same results. While the roads I've taken may have been questionable, I have committed no crimes, except unto myself. I guess I really don't regret anything if there was a lesson to be learned, but what did I learn and at what price?
In writing this blog, I intend to examine those roads with all the twists, turns and potholes, reflecting on my past while I embrace my future. I will chronicle who I am, opinions, rants, reviews and sometimes just thinking out loud on paper. All of it will be 100% ME, as I am now and maybe a bit of who I was then.
I invite you to come along and enjoy the view.
Writing has always been a necessity for me. My thoughts, feelings and rants have been put on paper ever since I was a moody, maudlin teenager. Scraps of anything I could write on to capture a moment in time.. I have saved most of these. Some make no sense at all and some I can barely decipher as my writing was fast and furious.
Now that I am older and these hands do not cooperate like they used to, it becomes impossible to read what I write. I attempted to record these thoughts by typing, but I have never been adept at typing because #1- I have never mastered the skill without looking at the keyboard and #2- my mind races faster than my fingers can type. Alas, I will not give up (or in) and try again. The need is stronger now at this time to record my thoughts and memories. It is important to me, for my daughter, grandson, sisters, friends and new found family members to know me as I am now and how I have changed. I am not speaking of physical location, although THAT certainly has played a big part in my new found peace of mind and self awareness.While my past certainly plays a part of how I came to be, it does not define me nor has it allowed me to change, which I have-profoundly. I know this may sound self-serving and egocentric. This is not my intention. I want this to be a historical, insightful and personal view into one woman's life.
I wish my parents and grandparents, aunts and uncles would've had such a forum to let us see who they really were. All we have is our limited perception of who they were, what they did as evidenced by our relationship with them or from a photo taken long ago, allowing us to view them physically, but revealing little of who they really were.
The change in me has taken place slowly over the past two and a half years. Some of it profoundly eye opening, some of it subtle, but most of it a"sock it to me" blunt force, hard hitting smack in the face reality check. This was a force so strong I could not ignore it and believe me, I tried.
Looking over my life, my choices seem to follow the same patterns, yielding the same results. While the roads I've taken may have been questionable, I have committed no crimes, except unto myself. I guess I really don't regret anything if there was a lesson to be learned, but what did I learn and at what price?
In writing this blog, I intend to examine those roads with all the twists, turns and potholes, reflecting on my past while I embrace my future. I will chronicle who I am, opinions, rants, reviews and sometimes just thinking out loud on paper. All of it will be 100% ME, as I am now and maybe a bit of who I was then.
I invite you to come along and enjoy the view.
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