Coffee Snob

Hi. That would be me. And I remember the bean that made me thus. It was the Kicking Horse Coffee “Kick Ass” and “Grizzly Claw” dark roast, spoiling me to never let another dusty dry, pale bean pass my lips aaaaagain.

It cost’s more, yes, but it was manageable, and it’s organic and Fair Trade!  It’s also a company that started and has stayed in Invermere, British Columbia ,so, you know, buy local!  I’d buckle down and fork out the extra Loonies (Dollars), and when it goes on sale I buy a few. As time passed the cost eventually crept up to $16.99 a pound. There are limits. I have some self control. Now I only buy it when it’s on sale. But luckily I have a back up brew, Tribal Java’s Ancient Ritual, also organic and fair trade, also out of Invermere and almost on par with Kicking Horse in flavour, and body – almost- and a few Loonies less.

I was at Costco and had a look at their big bags of coffee, thinking maybe, maybe one of these brands would be as good as Kicking Horse and for a lot less money. I picked up a 2 pound Italian bag of beans. Italians know their coffee right? Next morning I pour my Italian morning cup, take a sip…. ok. it’s uh… yeah, it’s all right. I guess. My husband sips his. Hmm, he says, only he’s wincing while doing it. Another few sips and we shake off the charade. This is the worst coffee we have EVER had. Instant coffee would have been better!

But we endured through a half a pound. Because you know, bought it, must finish it.

But we couldn’t finish it. Instead we cut our loses and relegated the rest of the bag to the freezer as Desperation Coffee. For emergencies, when out of coffee and unable to get to town for days due to hurricane, gale, or twenty foot seas. (see my About page) I picked up my Tribal back-up brand, and the next morning there was bliss back in my cup.

Life is waaaay too short for horrid coffee. I learned my lesson.

Then just the other day when grocery shopping I turned down the coffee isle and walked right into a small crowd. As I waded into the fray I saw that Kicking Horse was on for $9.99 ! So, seems I am not alone in my brand obsession. A man who looked like a runner; slight build, spandex, you know the look, was literally embracing -as in using both arms- bags of coffee and scooping ALL remaining eight pounds of Kicking Horse Grizzly Claw off the shelf and into his shopping cart. The other folks had theirs in cart and were dispersing. One pound of Kick Ass left, the rest was light roast. Which won’t do.

When he realized I was wanting some too he offered to give me a couple of his. “No,” I said, “that’s fine. I’ll take the Kick Ass.” This guy was evidently excited about his bounty, and on some sub level I could kind of understand his glee; like a mother watching her child pick out a puppy from the litter to take home, like a kid given 20 dollars to spend on road trip snacks. And he got there before me.

I was happy enough to have even one at that price. I put it in my cart and made my way to get in line at the check out. A moment later the runner-coffee-hoarder guy whizzed over to me, his face all lit up with  joy mixed with relief, to say there was another Kicking Horse display over by the entrance with lots of Grizzly Claw!

Yeah, I left the check out line and grabbed three pounds.

 

Attachments

IMG_2624I have a blue cup that I drink my coffee from each morning. I will not use any other as long at it remains intact, which  even though a long vertical fissure emanating from a big chip on the rim could render its holding properties null and void, still the little mug remains defiant.

I bought the cup in Cowichan Bay what has to be 10 years ago from a woman potter whose studio was down near the water just off the main street. I can’t recall her name, she’s identified only by what I can guess is a letter “J”  scored into the clay bottom. I’ve been back since to see if she was still there when I had thoughts of replacing my blue cup when its crack grew longer, and thinking its life was over, but her studio is gone. I searched another potters wares while I was there, picking up and holding several cups but nothing felt quite like the one I had.

It’s not that I won’t use another cup at home, It’s just when I am at home my blue cup- nick named by my daughter as Old Chippy- is the one I will always prefer to use. Oddly too I will never drink tea from it. Only coffee. Tea can go into any cup. I don’t care.

Allow me wax poetic over Old Chippy-

It’s a mighty little mug. It is well proportioned and exhibits a lovely shape that could almost be called delicate, but not so much that a man would feel awkward drinking from it. I love this mug. No explicable reason can follow such an arcane statement. It could be the color, or the shape, its size that gives me just the right amount of coffee that I need. It’s not too big and it’s not too small, its rim the correct thinness that allows my lips to receive the perfect sip. It could be that the fingers of my right hand are an ideal match for its handle, that its lower contour fits comfortably nestled when it rests in my cupped left hand. It “cups” well, living up to its primary function.

I believe my cup has feelings. Weirdo. I feel that it would think I thought it ugly with its cracks and chips  if I were to begin using a new cup. But this would never be the case. My cups patina only enhances, the chips and crack a testament to duty and purpose and fortitude, proclaiming its brawn and determination to remain engaged in the task that it was made for until it absolutely can no longer.

There is courage displayed there in my cup, and something of The Velveteen Rabbit perhaps.

I am aware that this is an odd attachment but this awareness carries no shame. My cup is made of earthen clay, shaped by a person’s hand, infused with the potters intent and attention, fused by fire and air. I suppose I am remembering what I read in my Findhorn Cookbook given to me by a friend when I was 17, about that community that honoured the spirit not only in the growing things in their gardens, but also in the equipment, machines and tools that they used. So I don’t feel too out-of-place, or left field. Or weird.

 

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