further thoughts on coffee.

Is March National Coffee Month? No? Well, perhaps it should be. You would think so if you are a reader of this blog. I’ve been waxing poetic about the alchemy of hot water and coffee beans quite a bit of late. And no, I’m not quite done yet, because this weekend I had a Revelation:

Some coffee is better than other coffee.

And I don’t just mean Starbucks is better than Folgers. Which it is. And maybe it is primarily a brand thing, but I don’t think so. My favorite cups of Joe have more to do with who brews them and the company in which they are served than who packaged the beans.

It should be noted that I don’t make my own coffee. This is due to a lack of knowledge not laziness. My parents were hot tea drinkers. I had no interaction with the invention of the coffee maker until I was 18 and waitressing, and even then, I feel several of my attempts to brew the morning pot resulted in disastrous hot water overflows in the drink station and not delectable cups of joe.

I had my Revelation yesterday. My cold was acting up again, I was lethargic, my head hurt… and Beth was brewing afternoon coffee. And after one cup and several laughs, I felt myself starting to come back to life. And after another half cup, I was ready for whatever might come my way that day. And then it hit me, I always feel this way after having a morning coffee with Beth–more alive and happy than before. Conclusion: Beth’s coffee is magic. (Author’s Note: For the record, it’s Costa Rican coffee from Trader Joe’s not some Hogwart’s brand.)

This got me to thinking… do I know others who can brew magic coffee? I think the coffee I have at 151 Naussau has mystical qualities. When the Brooklyn sun pours in and someone drops by with a Sunday Times and marvelous smells begin to drift out of the kitchen and music and laughter begins to fill the air, I find that cup of coffee lifting my spirits and curing whatever may ail me. And occasionally, in the right company, a steaming mug at a noisy diner–dishes clattering, coversations building–with slices of French toast piled high on my plate, can taste like a cup of heaven.

I have far too many kitchen appliances as is, especially for someone whose appearances in the kitchen have been rare of late. But I think a coffee maker might be the perfect housewarming gift for myself in April. If you’re lucky, my ruminations on coffee may not be contained to just March.

currently.

reading:

Life on the Mississippi, Mark Twain

A Guide to the French. Handle With Care. The New York Times

Out of Print: The Death and Life of the American Newspaper. The New Yorker

listening:

Chocolate & Cigarettes-EP, Angus & Julia Stone

This American Life (podcast)

Radio Lab (podcast)

watching:

Helvetica (documentary)

trip down memory lane.

I always knew I would leave if for no other reason that I wanted to. I wanted to live differently, see more, drive less. I left the Midwest four years ago, but I don’t feel like I ever really left my family. I carry them with me whatever coast of whatever continent I may be on.

Going back to St. Louis for the weekend is like spending an afternoon in an attic, dusting off memories, swapping stories. While the history of Europe and the East Coast may seduce my imagination on a regular basis, my own history is firmly entrenched in the middle of America.

Scenes from a weekend in St. Louis: 

Family history

Mom and I scan the family tree my great aunt had begun work on. Remeber Aunt Annie who lived to be age 105? I never knew her middle name was Matilda. Anna Matilda. Fought in the Civil War, huh? I wonder if he fought for the Confederate or Union army? And there is great grandma Cecilia–our claim to Italian blood (holding fast amongst the German DNA that prevails regularly). Speaking of Germany, we have roots in Dusseldorf and Hanover? Let’s find those cities on Google maps.

Personal history

Ah, Easter. It’s still clear to me. I was 4. Josh was 2. It was an egg hunt of epic proportions, or at least bigger than our usual two-man show in the backyard. I find three eggs, Josh none. I cry when I realized he hadn’t found any. Mom took an egg out of my basket and put it in his. That felt right. This is the first time I truly understanding what it is to be a big sister.

Preserved history

I often doubt my father’s knowledge of birds. This strikes me as the sort of knowledge he wants to have and can make up without anyone being the wiser. When he holds his hands over a foot apart to describe the woodpecker on our roof to my grandman, I call him on it. I remember grandpa’s bird book, and go hunting for it in the back room. There it is. In a drawer. Pulling open the drawer is like pulling open the past and exposing it to fresh air for the first time in years. Ghosts poured out into the room. Here is where grandma has saved grandpa’s things. We didn’t say anything. Dad picked up the bird book and we shut the drawer.

favorite things: holy week edition.

1-Bach.

2-Pare Umbrella.

3-Insanely-priced, but oh-so-comfortable jeans.

4-Easter vacation.

5-April showers in March.

6-Good Friday hymns.

7-Being a Life Time Learner (thank you, IRS).

thoughts from a walk… in no particular order.

I think my feet would stay drier if I took my shoes off. This is absurd.

What is Whole Foods trying to say about me as the consumer by putting issues of Psychology Today near the register as opposed to Star and People?

Why am I always wearing my longest pair of dress pants when it rains?

I’m sorry. Does that say crab-stuffed tilapia?

I haven’t the vaguest idea how to cook tilapia. Or trout for that matter. I’ll take both. (…and I’ll take suggestions)

Whoa. This week’s Onion headline is dangerously close to accurately reporting this week’s actual news. Unintentionally, no doubt.

Tilapia and taxes sounds like a good night.

I’m not going to burn the rice tonight! Go, girl, go!

I can’t wait to walk around my new neighborhood.

Please, god, I don’t want to owe on my taxes.

un cafe, s’il-vous-plait.

I have a slight pain in my side right now and I can’t help but wonder if it might have something to do with My Coffee Habit, which is running amok since I started graduate school. I did not grow up weened on coffee. In fact, we never even had it in the house as my parents were both hot tea drinkers. My vices always ran more in the way of carbonated sugar and corn syrup and less in the way of beans in any shape or form. Then it seems around a year ago I traded one vice for the other. I no longer need to disguise it in the guise of a Mocha. Medium roast, dark roast, skim milk, cream, sugar–I’m not picky. How did I get here? I like to blame Flavia machines and my body’s new penchant for hangovers, but the truth is more rooted in the past, the truth is far more rose-colored and nostalgic.

My first coffee was in Paris. Fitting. In typical me fashion it had less to do with being adventurous and trying new things and far more to do with blending in with my foreign surroundings. Well, that and the realization that “un cafe” was about the only word in my French vocab that people seemed to respond to.

I  was in France on a week-long family stay. Melanie, my charming and chic hostess, ordered “un cafe” in a small, dark cafe (obviously) and I followed suit. It arrived in a teeny cup if memory serves correctly with a stack of sugar cubes. Now this was something I could get behind. I was wary of the fragrant brown liquid in front of me, but sugar cubes? Yes, please. I studied Melanie as she unwrapped her cubes and dropped them in to her cup. I mirrored her every move. Plunk. Stir. Plunk. Stir. Sip.

I didn’t love it. But I didn’t hate it either.

And perhaps that was the beginning of the end. Despite popping in to cafes anywhere from two to three times a day in France, I developed no dependency to the beverage (all effects of caffeine were being offset by the exhaustion brought on by jet lag and thinking in French). I returned home to my Frappes and Coca-colas without even a backward glance.

While I can pinpoint that very first coffee, I’m less clear on when it became a daily part of my routine. The Flavia machine at work is quite fun to use. And the excuse to get away from my desk is always appreciated. And who doesn’t enjoy a warm drink after a cold morning commute to work? But I think we can blame France. These days when I take that first sip every morning, I remember my awkward 17-year-old self desperately wanting to blend in with these uber-sophisticated (in my eyes) French teenagers, yearning to make myself understood in their language–”un cafe, s’il-vous-plait.”

happy st. patty’s day.

I had my green shirt all picked out when the news arrived: $10 cover charge at the local Irish pub. I paused. I looked at the stack of books by my bed and thought of my poorly utilized Netflix subscription. Then my stomach growled.

And that is the heartwarming tale of how this German-Italian-American girl ended up treating herself to an incredible  dinner of ravioli and red wine and tucking herself in to bed with a good book and an unwatched movie at 8 pm on St. Patrick’s Day 2008.

Hope you had a lovely and lucky one, too!

lessons from a lazy weekend.

1. Sometimes all you need is a little hip-hop music.
2. Contrary to logic, skinny jeans make me feel great about myself.
3. Lebanese food can chase the stress away.
4. The Great Gatsby is more brilliant that I remembered (and making me wonder what other books I should go back and read…).
5. Change is healthy (and a little scary)–especially when it takes the form of a “room of my own” in a not-overly-dilapidated townhouse on V St.

alphabetical travel.

What have I been doing today?

Why, the same thing I do everyday–planning trips around the world.

To get the creative juices going today, I imposed a theme: Cities/Countries (I needed some flexibility) That Begin With Vowels. I was thinking Iceland, Amsterdam, Antwerp…

But like any rough idea, it needed a little tossing around and help from the outside to truly fine tune it and turn it into something that really pulled me in. I won’t keep you in suspense. A suggestion from my neighbor to the north:

[I]f you wanted to keep with a letter theme, you could just go another route. Start in Antwerp, then go to Berlin, Copenhagen, Dublin, Edinburgh, Florence, Geneva, Hannover, and…well, you get the idea.

So simple. So obvious. So brilliant. Naturally, I can’t afford to hit 26 cities in one shot. In fact, as of right now I can’t afford a single one of those cities (thank you, plummeting US dollar). And then I wondered if maybe I wasn’t thinking on too grand a scale. What about a domestic alphabet adventure?

I’ve been to Annapolis and Baltimore (and would happily go to both again)… and I’ve been meaning to go to Charlottesville for ages… and I’ve already got plans to head to Denver this year… Hmmmm…

This could be an interesting year.

back to the kitchen.

My kitchen and I have been on opposite schedules lately. As a result I feel our relationship is suffering. I’ve started getting dailing inspiration in the form of Everyday Food’s Dinner Tonight blog.

This recipe sounds like the perfect way to reignite our wanning relationship and maybe a good excuse to try out DIY ricotta.