The Coffee Files

Why is it so satisfying to open a new can of coffee; to hear the air rush in as the vacuum seal is broken releasing the long captured aroma?  Even if you aren’t a coffee drinker, you have to admit there are few things in life that smell so good as coffee brewing.

Instant coffee was the first thing I learned to make in the kitchen.  I remember feeling great pride as a young child, probably eight or nine, being able to put the kettle on all by myself and then carefully pour the hot water into the mug on top of the precisely measured crystals.  Dad took a teaspoon of sugar and a bit of milk in his, Mom drank hers black.  After stirring each cup to insure all ingredients were dissolved, I would carry the cups one by one to my parents.  At least that’s how I remember it.

Memory is a funny thing.  I think of my memory as a huge group of filing drawers.  Most of the time memories are filed properly, some times there are misfilings and other times I guess the memory was just dropped on the floor or went out with the trash.  In any case, something as simple as the smell of coffee can open a variety of drawers and memories come flooding out.

Some Sunday mornings when I was a kid, we’d go to my Grandma Gray’s house after Mass.  My Dad worked most Sundays and took the car with him so one of the aunts or uncles would swing by, pick us up and take us to church and then occasionally to Grandmas afterwards.  We kids liked going to Grandma Gray’s because my youngest aunt and uncles were around our age and with the four, and then five of us and the three of them, there was plenty to do.

Grandma Gray had a percolator which we kids found utterly fascinating.  We would stand by the counter to watch the brown brew bubble up into the glass bulb at the top as the air was filled with the rich coffee aroma.  As long as we were on our best behavior, we were allowed to stay in the kitchen and sit at the table with the grown-ups.  Trouble makers were banished to the basement where the real mischief began.  And, in the world of kid injustice, all it took was one bad apple and the banishment was inclusive. Protesting but compliant, the troop of us would head down the stairs.

Just thinking about Grandma’s basement brings back the clomping sound of our feet on the linoleum covered steps with steel edges.  The heaviest of us weighed about fifty pounds but when we raced up and down those stairs we sounded like the cavalry charging.  One of the steps was missing a back, perfect for someone to lie in wait to ambush and grab the ankles of an unsuspecting soul coming down the stairs.

Despite the stern warnings from above of “someone’s going to get hurt!”, I don’t remember anyone actually getting hurt.  We would run through the basement, thump on the yellowed keys of the old piano and watch cartoons on the old cabinet television with the mysterious mouse turd that lay between the glass and picture tube.  It was a childhood wonderment that inspired many hypotheses on how the mouse was able to squeeze into that space and leave his calling card.

When one of us felt especially daring we would quietly go upstairs, stealthy pass the adults and enter the bathroom, carefully shutting the door behind us as to not attract attention.  Once inside, we’d open the laundry chute, peek down to make sure the hamper was aligned properly and then wiggle feel first into the shaft and slide the short ride to the basement.  This usually only worked for one person because no matter how careful or quiet the second kid was, the grown-ups were somehow tuned into the fact we were sliding down the laundry chute; which was not allowed.  Whether it was the reception of giggles and hoots when the first “laundranaut” hit the hamper or the realization that a second kid was heading into the bathroom when the first had not come out (not a good thing for many reasons) that sounded the alarm, I’m not sure but generally the chute riding was a short lived activity.

Other times, on days when the energy level was lower and we weren’t banished to the basement, I’d love to sit at the kitchen table with the grown-ups.  There was always so much laughter.  In their own, grownup way, they were just as full of mischief as us kids.  They would share stories about something they’d seen, a quipping comment or two would follow and then as they say in the movie listings, “hilarity ensued”.  Around the table the comments flew, each person challenging the rest of the group to come up with something better until at last, the ulitmate quip was spoken reducing the rest of the group to laughter and tears and sending many to the bathroom pronto to avoid embarrassment.  To laugh until you wet yourself was not a rarity in our family.

Well, it’s time to leave Grandma’s house.  My coffee cup is empty and there are chores to be done.  I’m glad I opened that new can of coffee today.  I wonder what will happen when I open the new jar of mayo.