I began to wonder how badly I needed a cup of coffee in the morning.
Hal here, and I’m a long-time addict of the bean. Decades ago, when the Alaskan Highway mostly consisted of hard-packed soil and potholes, my buddy and I rode our motorcycles from San Jose, California, up and through the Sourdough State, and back again. It was on that ride that I, for the first time, enjoyed a cup of Joe.
As a younger man, I’d sipped at it a couple of times. Black and bitter, coffee was nasty stuff. I had no idea how my father could tolerate the brew.
When my friend and I took our ride, there were empty stretches of beautiful nothing along the way. (There were also road-raging truckers, a kindly stranger with an ample supply of pot, a flying rock that tried to take off my head, and a hidden hillside drop-off that nearly ended Tom’s trip way too early – and permanently – but those stories are for another day.) Toward the end of one day’s very long ride, with no shelter in sight, we came across a café.
In the middle of nowhere. No houses or outbuildings in view. Its sign lit, its windows bright, customers inside, it felt like a miracle when we saw the place. This was especially so because we were both so very thirsty. With a single dollar in my wallet, I was so very broke.
I might have been a long-haired biker in those days, but I still had manners. If a waitress was involved, I needed to leave a tip. Going inside, scanning the menu, the only thing I could afford (with tip) was a cup of coffee. So, that’s what I ordered.
Dad had always enjoyed his daily mud as black and bitter as sin. I added a liberal amount of cream and sugar to the cup in front of me, something he’d never have tolerated. Raising that cup to my dry lips, I intended to drink it all no matter how terrible it tasted.
It was bliss. I’ve been hooked ever since. Renée has always loved drinking coffee. I think her folks put it in her baby bottles.
We brew a pot every day using low acid ground beans in an electric percolator. An electric percolator is a simple thing. A pot, a heating element, a pump stem and a filter basket, you’re in business. Misplace one of these items, you may find yourself digging through two bags of garbage to find the thing.
The pump stem is a hollow tube that brings hot water from the bottom of the pot to its top, allowing boiling water to be dispersed over the coffee grounds. It looks like this:
Hal here, and I’m a long-time addict of the bean. Decades ago, when the Alaskan Highway mostly consisted of hard-packed soil and potholes, my buddy and I rode our motorcycles from San Jose, California, up and through the Sourdough State, and back again. It was on that ride that I, for the first time, enjoyed a cup of Joe.
As a younger man, I’d sipped at it a couple of times. Black and bitter, coffee was nasty stuff. I had no idea how my father could tolerate the brew.
When my friend and I took our ride, there were empty stretches of beautiful nothing along the way. (There were also road-raging truckers, a kindly stranger with an ample supply of pot, a flying rock that tried to take off my head, and a hidden hillside drop-off that nearly ended Tom’s trip way too early – and permanently – but those stories are for another day.) Toward the end of one day’s very long ride, with no shelter in sight, we came across a café.
In the middle of nowhere. No houses or outbuildings in view. Its sign lit, its windows bright, customers inside, it felt like a miracle when we saw the place. This was especially so because we were both so very thirsty. With a single dollar in my wallet, I was so very broke.
I might have been a long-haired biker in those days, but I still had manners. If a waitress was involved, I needed to leave a tip. Going inside, scanning the menu, the only thing I could afford (with tip) was a cup of coffee. So, that’s what I ordered.
Dad had always enjoyed his daily mud as black and bitter as sin. I added a liberal amount of cream and sugar to the cup in front of me, something he’d never have tolerated. Raising that cup to my dry lips, I intended to drink it all no matter how terrible it tasted.
It was bliss. I’ve been hooked ever since. Renée has always loved drinking coffee. I think her folks put it in her baby bottles.
We brew a pot every day using low acid ground beans in an electric percolator. An electric percolator is a simple thing. A pot, a heating element, a pump stem and a filter basket, you’re in business. Misplace one of these items, you may find yourself digging through two bags of garbage to find the thing.
The pump stem is a hollow tube that brings hot water from the bottom of the pot to its top, allowing boiling water to be dispersed over the coffee grounds. It looks like this:
Assembling the coffee pot pieces to do the daily brew, we couldn’t find ours. Stainless steel, over eight inches long, it was hard to overlook. We went through the kitchen, opening every drawer. Looking inside the refrigerator and freezer because, you know, maybe there’d been a senior moment. Searching everywhere until there was nowhere else to check.
Which is when Renée asked, “What if it fell into the trash?”
There were two well-filled 15-gallon bags of stench in our garbage bin. Wearing gloves, masks, and eye goggles, we went through them together. I’m telling you now, on my deathbed, I may not remember the names of my loved ones standing at bedside, but I will never forget the smell that accompanied our search.
Yet it might have been worth it if we’d located the pump stem. Checking online, I found a replacement couldn’t be guaranteed for three weeks. Since it would be coming from China, three weeks was probably optimistic.
The next morning, coffee‑deprived but hand‑washing dishes anyway, we found it. Sitting under the lifted sink screen. The tiny stainless‑steel giver of life:
Which is when Renée asked, “What if it fell into the trash?”
There were two well-filled 15-gallon bags of stench in our garbage bin. Wearing gloves, masks, and eye goggles, we went through them together. I’m telling you now, on my deathbed, I may not remember the names of my loved ones standing at bedside, but I will never forget the smell that accompanied our search.
Yet it might have been worth it if we’d located the pump stem. Checking online, I found a replacement couldn’t be guaranteed for three weeks. Since it would be coming from China, three weeks was probably optimistic.
The next morning, coffee‑deprived but hand‑washing dishes anyway, we found it. Sitting under the lifted sink screen. The tiny stainless‑steel giver of life:
If we hadn’t lifted the screen to clean the grate’s tiny rubber feet, the pump stem would still be missing. I’m made of sterner stuff, but Renée would have gone into withdrawal.
And she drinks decaf.
And she drinks decaf.
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