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I love the smell of the first brew in the morning, and I love drinking that first cup, in bed, while catching up on the news, weather, e-mails, etc.
Coffee conjures up good memories; first of all the full bean boiling in a heavy kettle on the wood stove, then the white corning ware pot, with the three blue flowers painted on its side, percolating on the stove top, and lastly, a highly technical coffee maker with water level adjustments and a red light to warn you to wait and a green one to go ahead.
I learned to enjoy drinking it as a young child, I actually do not remember NOT drinking coffee. The best coffee was shared in the middle of a wheat field; cold coffee out of a mason jar passed around between Dad, a hired man, Mom, and at least 2 of us kids. It was harvest time, and Mom had prepared a feast which we delivered in a sturdy cardboard box along with a worn out blanket which served as the table cloth. It was spread out in a mostly unseemly manner amongst the dirt, dust, stubble & bugs. There was that holy moment when Dad would pull up with the combine, all rumble and chaff, and turn off the engine. Silence absolute. We would see him grin through dirt and grime, lean over to pick up the jar of coffee, unscrew the lid, and take a good swallow. There was always talk of the weather, of how long the rains would hold off; was there water in those clouds? How many bushels of wheat per acre this year? The rubbing of wheat between hands, blowing off the chaff, and then chewing to test whether or not there was moisture in the kernels, because moisture meant eventual mould, and mould meant a low grade, or a useless crop. There was a lot at stake here, a lot hung in the balance.
I wonder now how Dad gave himself permission to stop and enjoy a good cup of coffee, to lie on the open field with a full stomach, and rest, before he resuscitated the old field beast.
Coffee conjures up good memories; first of all the full bean boiling in a heavy kettle on the wood stove, then the white corning ware pot, with the three blue flowers painted on its side, percolating on the stove top, and lastly, a highly technical coffee maker with water level adjustments and a red light to warn you to wait and a green one to go ahead.
I learned to enjoy drinking it as a young child, I actually do not remember NOT drinking coffee. The best coffee was shared in the middle of a wheat field; cold coffee out of a mason jar passed around between Dad, a hired man, Mom, and at least 2 of us kids. It was harvest time, and Mom had prepared a feast which we delivered in a sturdy cardboard box along with a worn out blanket which served as the table cloth. It was spread out in a mostly unseemly manner amongst the dirt, dust, stubble & bugs. There was that holy moment when Dad would pull up with the combine, all rumble and chaff, and turn off the engine. Silence absolute. We would see him grin through dirt and grime, lean over to pick up the jar of coffee, unscrew the lid, and take a good swallow. There was always talk of the weather, of how long the rains would hold off; was there water in those clouds? How many bushels of wheat per acre this year? The rubbing of wheat between hands, blowing off the chaff, and then chewing to test whether or not there was moisture in the kernels, because moisture meant eventual mould, and mould meant a low grade, or a useless crop. There was a lot at stake here, a lot hung in the balance.
I wonder now how Dad gave himself permission to stop and enjoy a good cup of coffee, to lie on the open field with a full stomach, and rest, before he resuscitated the old field beast.
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