Just Black, Please

This has been a dark week.  It would be good to focus on something joyful.

 

Friday night I purchased a new coffee maker.  This purchase did not come easily, however.  I did a lot of soul-searching, intense research, and footwork before I had the treat of a superior home-brew.

 

Although they would deny it, my parents are responsible for my devotion to a darkly roasted bean.  In my childhood years, coffee was a rote occupation.  Get up, drink coffee, go to work.  As many likely recollect, it was the first "adult beverage" I coveted and was denied.  It was a part of our household, as much a member of the family as our dog, Jodie.

 

My grandmother was the first to regularly provide this banned substance.  I looked forward to sitting with her Saturday mornings on the farm, and talking.  She never curtailed the amount of cream or sugar that filled my cup.  I would outgrow such rash methods.  I am a purist, especially in barbeque and coffee.  If you must mask the flavor with some sort of dressing, then your original substance must be substandard.  I guess that sounds a little pretentious.  Oh, well.

 

Halfway through my college career, I noticed something different on trips home.  The quick java fix in the morning had become an exercise of reverence and ritual.  It was something to be savored.  It started, I suppose, when my mother subscribed to a coffee club.  It was cemented when my father returned home from the store with a new machine, and, in an instant, moved the family from basket to cone filtration.

 

Now, here I am.  There are emails extolling the virtues of coffee and tea, and comparing both to Volleyball.  Even at my few years, I sometimes get the sense that certain things should be experienced with deliberate enjoyment.  After reading reviews and opinions, I realized what I must buy.  To my bewildered disappointment, I realized I must purchase the same model my parents owned.  I would at least have the satisfaction of having a different color.  I walked away from two trips in one weekend empty-handed.  I finally found success on Friday, and I discovered joy.

 

There are several better ways to make coffee, I admit.  However, I awoke Tuesday morning not to the blaring siren of my clock-radio, but to the deep aroma of java penetrating my nostrils.

 

Now, I await the dawn.