As usual, I fixed my pot the night before so that all I had to do was push the button and head back to bed for a short nap. When I returned to the kitchen a large puddle of coffee streamed out from the pot.
I
cleaned up the mess, poured myself a cup, and headed back to bed. The coffee
tasted weak, and to be honest, somewhat nasty. I’m picky about my coffee and
that just didn’t cut it. I went back to the kitchen poured everything out and
started over. I pushed the “ON” button, and nothing happened. I pushed it
again—no response. I unplugged the pot and plugged it back in, same outcome.
Knowing
how I am about my coffee, my husband went on Amazon and ordered a new coffee
pot. Unfortunately, it must have been coming in on a slow boat from China
because our speedy delivery arrangement did not work for the pot. Are they
nuts? What was I supposed to do?
I never
intended to be a coffee drinker. I blame it on Grandma Fisher. When we would go
to her house, she insisted on making a fresh pot of coffee. “I don’t drink
coffee,” I would tell her. Didn’t matter, she poured me a cup anyway. Then, she
insisted you drink your cup of coffee so that she could read the coffee grounds
in the bottom. Oh, yes, it was strong, hot, and had grounds in it.
Grandma
Fisher was a little on the spooky side. While we drank our coffee, she would
regale us with stories of her dire predictions of death, and sure enough the
person died. Well, you know, I just jumped up and rinsed out my cup.
Grandma
may have gotten me started, but Jim reinforced my habit daily. At home, we
drank our first cup of coffee in bed each morning. When we traveled on our
annual trips to Colorado, he took his Coleman camp stove and his drip pot. He
stopped at rest areas periodically to make fresh coffee for the thermos. One of
the most telling moments of how devastating dementia can be was the morning at
a hotel when Jim couldn’t remember how to make coffee.
From Indelible:
One morning Jim prepared to make coffee in the in-room coffeemaker. He picked up the pot, set it down, picked it up, and set it down. He looked around in confusion trying to decide what to do next. From the bed, I said, “Put coffee in the basket.”
“Oh!
That’s right.” He added the coffee and then acted like he expected the coffee
to make itself.
“Put
water in the pot.”
He
put water in the pot.
“Pour
it in the top”
He
poured it in.
“Turn the pot on.” He turned it on. As soon as the coffee was done, he was back in full form. He poured the coffee into the thermos, cleaned the pot, and brought me a cup of coffee in bed.
As I
got ready for bed the evening after my coffee pot quit, I contemplated going to town for a cup of coffee the next
morning. I figured I could just wear
my jammies. Maybe I would need to get more than one cup… Then, the light bulb
went off and I remembered I had a four-cup Mr. Coffee in the kitchenette
downstairs.
Anyway,
I got by until my new pot came in. I decided to take advantage of the bells and
whistles and set the clock, the timer, and put the dial on auto. The next
morning, the coffee wasn’t made, so I pushed the brew button. Later, I looked
the pot over. “Did you set it on AM or is it on PM,” my husband asked. What a
silly question, but I checked anyway. Ooops. So I reset it for AM and the second
night, I went to bed knowing I would have a hot pot of coffee ready when my
alarm went off. Nope. Cold pot, no coffee. That time my husband read the
instruction book and informed me that I’d skipped a step. Well, the third time
was a charm. I loved waking up to Folgers in my cup.
I
thought about the expression—the third time is a charm. I realized it means
that I never gave up although I had already failed two times. So is the third
time really a charm, or simply a matter of perseverance?
Copyright
© October/November 2020 by L.S. Fisher
http://earlyonset.blogspot.com
#ENDALZ
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