A Jolt of Reality
First published in the Chicago Tribune
I should have guessed something was amiss the last time I ran out of coffee filters. Strolling through the caffeine aisle, I kept looking for that familiar box of Mr. Coffee 8-inch basket filters. But like the ever-elusive “Mr. Right,” he was nowhere to be found. A quick query revealed that Mr. Coffee was no longer in the business of selling paper filters. And just like that I realized I had become my mother.
If you’re reading this, Mom, of course I meant that as a joyous revelation. What daughter isn’t thrilled each time she recognizes the deeply entrenched tracks she’s following? Now, Mom, please go grab a cup of instant coffee and stop reading.
Coming of age around 1980 BSE (Before the Starbucks Era), I have only the vaguest recollections of percolated coffee. If I shut my eyes and concentrate, I can conjure up memories of a silver pot with a black cord. Far clearer in my memory is Folger’s. For most of my childhood, “the best part of waking up” originated in that bright red can. Over time, the ground beans gave way to crystals, and those gave way to Freeze Dried Sanka. Coffee at Mom’s came to mean stirring up a mug of decaf. Stop by late in the morning and Mom zapped a half-drunk cup in the microwave. Further from a latte one cannot get.
As an adult with more sophistication, I felt nothing but disdain for my mother’s brew. Not that I’m an aficionado, but I take pride in selecting overpriced beans and grinding them in the store. When friends come over, I make a pot. Occasionally, I even heat and froth a little milk.
One by one, the pot parties dwindled. More and more of my friends started turning to pods. Sarah explained how that single cup serving was all she really needed. Gloria sang the praises of her perfect morning espresso. I was unmoved. Even my sister joined in. “You have to try the Nespresso Hazelnut. It’s the best.” It was tasty. But I felt loyal to my coffee maker, to the concept of the pot, and to the integrity of the drip.
I condemned the pods as wasteful. I sneered at the elitism. I shunned the solitary nature of the single serving. I remained loyal to my machine.
And then last week, my thirty-year-old personal trainer, a former college football player immune to suburban excess, raved about the Keurig he got for Christmas. While I sweated through sets of arm exercises, he weighed the pros and cons of different flavored pods.
Finally I saw it. My Mr. Coffee machine had morphed into my mother’s Sanka. My beloved pot of coffee may as well be a glass of prune juice or a tablespoon of cod liver oil. I realize, at last, that I have been clinging to a good idea whose time is past. Goodbye, Mr. Coffee. See you on eBay, next to Tang. Someone, throw me pod. Save me.
