It was with great trepidation and much sadness that I awakened my wife with the news no one ever wants to share, especially first thing in the morning.
“He’s gone,” I said. “The coffee pot is dead.”
We knew the day was coming, of course, but were in denial. Even as the warmer plate became cooler, even as the reservoir emitted strange bubbles and noises, even as occasionally one had to whack the top firmly to reseat things, we still had hope. After all, it had outlived a couple of Keurigs, which simply cannot survive on filtered swamp water, no matter how often they are cleaned and descaled. The supposedly indestructible Bunn coffeemakers never survive more than a few years at our house, either, although like a Chevrolet truck, they keep running longer than the law should allow.
But the other morning, as the official temperature touched 20 degrees while back in the hollow we yearned for such warmth, Mr. Coffee was no more. The little green light flickered a few times, but save for a tablespoon full of what may have once been considered coffee, nothing came out.
I boiled the day’s first pot in the whistling tea kettle; it was not so much to offend the sensibilities of fanatical tea-drinkers as it was that I didn’t want to go out to the barn and find the backup pot. Said backup was procured after a while and put into service, but like an old farm truck kept around just for emergencies, the little pot isn’t designed for daily, large-quantity coffee consumption.
If I am remembering correctly, our Mr. Coffee – the simple, humble black plastic throne of life – came to be with us during another crisis, after one of the high-speed low-drag K-cup things simply decided it was not cut out for our type of violence. The crisis in that case was that my truck decided not to run while Rhonda was out of town; while I normally find such enforced isolation a blessing, in this case it was a disaster. Thankfully she was on her way home, and obtained Mr. Coffee at one of the approximately 75 Dollar General stores scattered between our home and her mom’s. That K-thing at least had the decency to wait until about lunchtime on a weekend to die, so the morning was able to start properly, even if the day was rudely interrupted.
I have been a coffee drinker since my grandmother, then my mother patronized me with a cup containing more sugar and milk than coffee; along the way the creamer was forgotten, then the sugar.
I became a straight, strong, black brew purist.
While a sweet coffee drink can be a nice treat, halfacappfrappafoamyfoorfaraw with a hint of nutmeg ain’t coffee. I am even less willing to go through the rituals of creating such cafes’ de gourmet at home than I am willing to wait in a line for some stranger to politely smile while looking down their nose at me and writing my name on a cup of what should be a basic, simple procedure: pouring a cup of black coffee.
On one occasion I was in a famous-name coffeeshop like that; it was convenient, albeit snooty and leftist, but the coffee was good — when I finally got it. There were fewer customers in the coffee place than there were workers behind the counter, but my cup still had to have my name written on it, and pass down a line through three sets of hands, all so I could confuse the green- and blue-haired barista with a hog-ring in her nose by paying with cash instead of a card. Then I shocked them further by not leaving a tip in the jar on the counter. I figured they had already made about a buck apiece off my cup, even taking into account the cost of doing business, and at several hundred customers per day, they weren’t going to miss any meals without me adding 15 percent for their deigning to wait on me.
Contrast that with the locally-owned drive-thrus and diners where I sometimes have to argue with the owner about paying, simply because we are friends and I am a good customer. Nobody has to write my name on a cup, and it’s always fresh and served with a sincere smile. On the rare occasions it’s old, stale and bitter I don’t complain, since I have a lot in common with those cups.
The other morning when Mr. Coffee died, I hit one of my regular haunts. I was waited on in the Cruisers drive-up window by the owner, and the coffee was hot and fresh. We exchanged pleasantries, as we always do. I headed on into work knowing that the paltry sum I paid would be going directly back into our community, not to some plastic corporate headquarters somewhere where they hate America and can’t figure out the difference between boys and girls.
Again, I like a fancy sweet coffee drink sometimes, but it’s not coffee.
Steaming cups served across Formica or poured at a kitchen table have witnessed many major milestones in my life, from pulling all-nighters while working beside my father and mother to when Miss Rhonda and I were courting. Taking the time to make and have a civilized cup of coffee requires a commitment that allows time for introspection. There’s no room nor need for pretention, dashes of this or dollops of that.
Coffee cups make a simple, sometimes whimsical, sometimes muted statement. They sometimes reflect the owner, or at least the mood, from my infamous skull cop to the gift from the late, beloved Edith Batson down to the simple white mug I used for years at my in-laws. I do not mean to collect coffee cups – indeed, as much as I appreciate the generosity, please don’t bring me another one. I don’t want or need any more – but they make a simple, thoughtful and useful gift, and each one means something outside of the warm reassurance that it is meant to contain.
But cups require coffee to function.
And without a coffee pot, the whole world is thrown off kilter. Indeed, of what use is an engine without gasoline? Or a kitchen without food? Or a liberal without something to offend them?
Without a pot to magically transform dried ground beans and hot water into a basic element of the universe, one may as well eat spoonfuls out of the coffee canister and hope for the best.
Tea is a poor substitute. It’s ill-advised to brew a cup of tea in a cup permanently stained with Columbian; the Ghosts of Coffees past will revolt and slowly turn the drink into something best not allowed to roam freely around small children.
As I write these words, my bride is wiping down the counter where Mr. Coffee once held court; when the period of mourning is over (say, an hour or so) she’ll go find us a new full-sized warhorse that will rumble and bubble and gurgle and signal the start or the end of the day. Perhaps it will be a new Mr. Coffee; there are other brands, of course, with adjustments for strength and cup sizes and clocks and timers and other bells and whistles, but we have discovered simpler is better for us.
Whatever the pot that comes home, it will have big shoes to fill, and many cups of hope, warmth, frustration, victory, finality, beginning, and yes, life itself to pour.
Rest easy, Mr. Coffee. We shall remember you always.
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