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Sunday, January 13, 2019

The Power of Coffee






People generally get over the thought that they are an "adult" around age twenty-five. I am sixty-three and it crosses my mind (more often than I care to admit) how wonderful it is to NOT be a kid. There is absolutely nothing that says adulthood more than grinding your own beans and holding a cup of hot, dark Army grade coffee in your arthritic hands. Ahh. So good to be able to eat whatever you want, whenever you want, and call it what you want, a cup of brew, a cup of Joe, black magic or, well, coffee. Part of the reason I did not enjoy being a kid was that I did not understand the power and the language of adults. The old saying "Power Corrupts and Absolute Power Corrupts Absolutely" is so true. Parents cannot comprehend even the simplest powers they weld, one of which is the power of words. Why all the rumblings about language and power and breakfast? Well, there are things that trigger me and on this particular day I had a pot of Open Meal cooking on the stove. I ladled it in to a bowl, added lots of sugar and poured a few generous tablespoons of evaporated milk, straight out of a can to my bowl of Open Meal- because after all, monkey see monkey do. That is the way it was served when I was a child at home, living with the monkeys.  Although I require cream in my coffee, the milk for my Open Meal HAS to be out of a can: this is a childish tradition that cannot be broken. My adult addition to my Open Meal was that I was adding fresh raspberries from my garden. Freedom to choose. That is what I crave. Freedom, bound in tradition, with a helmet on for safety, and 911 on standby. 

              What might you ask is Open Meal? It took me a while to figure that one out too, because one cold morning when still just a preschooler I got up, and sat on the heater vent for a while to warm up -pulled on socks and went to the breakfast table where mother was serving "it."  In my most "Oliver” voice I said.... "Please mum, may I have my Open meal?" She said, bluntly, "No.” “What?" I gasped, “No Open Meal? Was there a problem?" (I am sure I did not articulate all of that. I think I must have just looked sort of dumb founded.) She said bluntly, "It is not Open Meal." The silence that followed was eerie. My stomach rumbled, the dog barked, it thundered. It was a mystery and a western shoot out all rolled up in one cold dawn. Okay, here is the cruelty of it all, the thing that I now know as an adult, - she was standing there with a cup of coffee. Let that sink in people. She had coffee.

               Her cheeks held the rosy glow of a campfire cook, and in spite of the fact that she was only 5 foot 2 inches; to me she was a giant, standing there tall, and warm, and geared up with caffeine, ready for the rodeo. I, bless my small pea pickin' heart, was standing there shivering in my nightgown without any knowledge of the fact that the best part of waking up was Folgers in my cup. I just wanted my Open Meal. How was I going to get my breakfast if they changed the name for it over night? I looked around the table at my four siblings, all with a big bowl of Open Meal right in front of them and I knew, perhaps for the first time in my life, the meaning of the words... no help at all. Was there really no Open Meal left? Had they gotten it all? I glanced around and checked the clock on the wall to see if I had really slept that late but that was just another testimony of my in-adequateness. I could not tell time. 

              By faith, I went ahead, climbed up in the chair, and sat there. My Mother, as if speaking to someone deaf mouthed the words slowly." It is OAT MEAL. “She spat the T out as if it was distasteful. If you have ever seen a dog tilt his head to one side, I am sure I did a pretty good rendition. If I could have articulated it, I am sure I would have said, "What the heck is an OAT?" I knew what "Open" meant and to my preschool brain, Open Meal made more sense. After all, listen close everyone reading this because I want you to think about it. She OPENED the little tub of "it" and poured "it" in a pot with water and then OPENED the pot and spooned it in my bowl every morning. I was okay with thinking it was Open meal. "O- A-T -meal" she calmly and deliberately stated again. I nodded, she gave me a bowl, I ate. She could call it whatever she wanted. At the ripe old age of 63, I still call it Open Meal. 



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