I’m not sure when coffee introduced itself into my life, but I think it was back in the 1970s during my Shamoco Ford days. Fresh out of high school, a greenhorn in the working-off-the-farm world, I started drinking coffee.
Our service manager at the time, Bob Mott — a fellow I’d come to admire in the 12 years I’d worked there — made a fresh pot of really great coffee for the mechanics and us girls in the office. If the coffee ran out, I could always get my caffeine fix with a cold bottle of Sundrop from the vending machine — for a quarter.
As the years unfolded, I’d try different coffees, but always resonated toward strong and midnight black first thing in the morning. With afternoon coffees, I’ve recently dabbled in the coffee flavor section of the grocery store. Discovering salted caramel brownie, I wonder how many calories I add to my midnight black. In the summer, if I happen to be in town, I treat myself to an occasional iced caramel coffee as a mid-day pick me up.
I have quite the collection of mugs. When we’d go on trips I always managed to check out the coffee mugs — the muggier the better. I usually have a favorite carafe but do switch it up occasionally just to validate my stash.
Our daughter, during her missionary trips around the world, would bring me a sampling of different coffee grounds. The best ever was from Thailand. She had lived at a coffee farm for a time during that trip. What a delectable treat.
Two of our three kids love coffee, and while my husband and I share many similar likes in this life, alas, he does not appreciate, not partake of, my love of a cup of joe. I asked him once, “Want some coffee?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“It tastes like gravel,” says he.
“What does gravel taste like?”
“It tastes like coffee.”
That was the end of that conversation.
During the course of my coffee-drinking years I’ve only stopped for one reason and just for a fleeting season when I was pregnant with our daughter. Once, going through the coffee aisle at Charlie’s County Market in Shawano, I felt the familiar unsettledness typically experienced during my first trimester — and normally behind the straw cart in the back end of the barn during morning chores.
Uh oh.
The smell, usually so tantalizing, was appalling. Holding my breath, I got through the aisle without incident but until our daughter was born, I avoided that aisle like the plague. The morning I gave birth, I enjoyed the best cup of coffee I’d ever had.
Because one of my nieces and I both love coffee, last year she suggested an additive I’d never heard of nor considered, until she brought it up.
“Hey Aunt Kay. Have you ever tried adding butter to your morning coffee?”
I was astounded and because this sweet niece of mine suggested it, I’d tried it. I’m since hooked. It adds a creamy texture without milking the coffee down. It takes the edge off, especially since I’m prone to rewarming my leftovers. To enhance the flavor even more, my niece suggested I try Irish butter — which has a richer flavor and creamier texture — and to grind beans instead of using grounds.
Coffee on the deck first thing on a gentle spring or summer or even early fall morning is a delight. There’s something about sipping coffee outside that makes it even more enjoyable. Yet nothing comes even remotely close to satisfying than a soothing cup of hot brewed coffee on a cold winter morning. Snug in my back room wrapped in a blanket — cupping my favorite mug with both hands, breathing in that fragrant aroma, savoring a first sip — its settling.
I might be a little doltish because I absolutely have to have a back-up coffeemaker on hand, on the outside chance my working one decides to kick the bucket. One of my Christmas gifts from my husband was an exact replica of the Mr. Coffee I am currently using. It was on my list. Living in a town with nary a stoplight, a few bars and a church does not afford me running out in the morning to pick up a coffee.
Yes. I am hooked.
(“Whether, then, you eat or drink or whatever you do, do all to the glory of God.” 1 Corinthians 10:31, New American Standard Bible)
Kay Reminger was born and raised on a dairy farm, and she married her high school sweetheart, who happened to farm for a living in Leopolis. Writing for quite a few years, she remains focused on the blessings of living the ups and downs of rural life from a farm wife’s perspective.
