life

Thoughts on Coffee & Papa

I am a bit of a coffee person, if you haven’t gotten that, by now. It’s true. But I’m not a coffee snob, mind you. I have no idea how to use an espresso machine. My main go-tos are a medium roast, my Keurig, my electric percolater, and I can French Press like nobody’s business.

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This week, I found this article, while researching whether or not I should leave my percolater plugged in after brewing. The article was written in 1998, and it made me smile to think that at least something written almost 20 years ago is still completely relevant. It made me miss the smell of newsprint, which is saying something, because I’ve never liked it. We’ll call it nostalgia.

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My grandpa always had a percolater on the countertop. His had a clear top, so you could see the splashing water gradually tint from clear to a lucious brown, which I remember gagging on, when I was 4 years old. I couldn’t imagine drinking that stuff, but when the scent blended with clean laundry detergent and his unsmoked pipe tobacco, it became comforting, almost addictive. After he passed away, we visited my grandma’s house. I found his pipe. And one of his shirts. And the percolater. But none of them smelled right. He was the thing that had made them worth breathing.

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When I started using my own percolater, it made me feel closer to my grandpa, like we had something in common, and I could be like him, and since he was a wonderful person, that meant I could be wonderful, too. I know it’s reading into it too much. When my daughter brings her empty teacup over to me and lifts it to “have coffee” with me, I hope she remembers the smell and the gross taste. And how much she enjoyed having coffee with me.

 

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