My coffee journey has been long, “with many a winding turn.” I tried iced coffee in the fifth grade. Didn’t care for that…the Hawk Tuah Girl would have been proud. About six years later I began sharing my parents’ coffee pot. That percolator provided hot, strong coffee just like my daddy liked. I needed something sweeter so I added sugar—several spoons worth. That habit continued until an early morning in LA (Lower Alabama), as part of a crew assisting Mobile with Hurricane Camille recovery.
A predawn car wreck obliterated a power pole near Bay Minette and disconnected a local hospital’s power. We were on site by 7 a.m., waiting for the local power company to restore electricity so we could restore phone service. Three hours later, our boss showed up with coffee. No milk, no sugar, no honey buns, just coffee. I tossed my cup after three sips and vowed to make changes so I wasn’t dependent on a boss who “didn’t have feelings for others.”
Within a few months, I was drinking my coffee black. This led to uncomfortable issues within my gut, so I added a little milk. My coffee cooled considerably, but I dealt with it like grown men are supposed to do…until I did phone work one morning for a Cuban lady. She introduced me to Cuban coffee—sweet, strong, and hot—just what I was looking for. Sadly, in those days, no one in Alabama knew what espresso, latte, or café olay was.
Fast forward into this century and things changed. Starbucks reimagined coffee shops. I’ve never been a fan of trendy corporate culture so I ignored them. But an industry blossomed around Starbucks. Local coffee shops sprouted like Dollar General. I had choices. Things were fine until we traveled overseas.
My journey reached peak discovery one evening in Scotland. We’d spent the day wandering the streets of Edinburg, seeing the sites and sampling food and drink. On our way back to the hotel, we decided to try a Scottish dessert. I tried a latte with mine.
I bought an espresso machine when I got home to replace the French press I’d purchased shortly after arriving home after visiting Ireland. I discovered that latte offered me strong, hot coffee, diluted by a foamy cream heated to coffee temperature— my perfect drink—in an Eddie Bauer travel cup older than my children. That is until my machine began malfunctioning after an alarmingly short period of time.
I’m now on my third espresso maker. Like many other things since rich corporations quit paying taxes, quality control disappeared in favor of larger profits. My new machine looks similar, but there are significant differences.
The light touch buttons work great unless one is used to holding the front of the machine while tightening the portafilter. A misplaced finger can prematurely begin the brewing process, cause early morning panic, and mess up a kitchen. I also had to relearn the art of frothing. But after a few tweaks, a misstep or two, and actually reading the user manual, I’m back into my routine— maybe a lifetime routine.
Unless I go back to Europe.
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