Alarm goes off and I slowly make my way into the kitchen to launch completion of priority one, making the coffee. Every time, without exception, I have a full sensory experience when I grind the beans and breathe in the magnificent fragrance released. Our larger percolator named Bruno expired last week and for now we are using my Gloria; a petite little 8-cup percolating beauty.
The term “brewed coffee” has evolved over time. Early designs were pots with a flat bottom and narrow sharp spouts to block coffee grounds from escaping. The first commercial coffee pot was name “Mr. Biggin” in 1780. Mr. Biggin was fussy. If the grinds were too fine the water went out the sides of the lid. If the grinds were to course the coffee came out too weak. Then came the precursor to today’s plunger filter or “French Press”, the invention of the metal coffee filter out of France in 1802. Last two notable advances were my favorite, the percolator or “vacuum pot” where water is pumped into the filter compartment and finally the current day coffee pot, hot water pouring over grinds in the filter.
I set up Gloria, plug her in and wait. All is silent until I hear the slow and deliberate pumping of her working. Gloria’s exhale of steam takes me right back to my Italian grandmother’s kitchen, a seemingly large room but barely fit a table for six. It was a room where all who entered were welcomed, unconditionally loved and accepted, and where you’d learn how to laugh at yourself. It was where I felt safe.
The percolator morning ritual started with my grandmother, minus the cigarette squeezed between her pointer and middle finger. She never named her percolator but if she were to, I’d guess she would be called “Alice.” Everyone has met an Alice at their local diner pouring out coffee and listening to the drama, dreams and failures of the day.
Gloria has ceased her hissing; I grab my Yeti and pleased the French/Sumatra brew will remain hot for hours. At my grandmothers table guests were given an unadorned ivory mug. There was nothing terribly special about it. Logically, it didn’t keep coffee hot for hours, but I don’t recall ever complaining about the temperature or really about anything as I sat there witnessing. Even back then I knew there was something special happening around that table, only now I’m able to articulate the magic and the miracle of having a space to share life with others.
I carry the mint green Yeti into my office and set it down on the makeshift desk of plywood and a couple of sawhorses. A smile begins to form as I think about all the people who sat around the kitchen table at 37 Stowe. Pasqualena, she went by “Lee,” was one of ten children. Born at a time when women were submissive and stayed home with their kids, her spirit needed more wiggle room. She put herself through beauty school and became the sole proprietor of Lee’s Beauty Korner; a room always packed with smoking ladies, coffee and the occasional six pack of beer. All who met her, including me, wished to bottle up her loud infectious laughter.
Looking out the window the first winter snow is falling. Feeling the winters chill, I take a sip and follow the hot coffee slowing rolling over my tongue and down the back of my throat filling me up both physically and emotionally with warmth. I close my eyes to savor the moment and an unexpected memory bubbles up.
One uneventful morning I gathered around my grandmothers table along with my sister, mom and grandma all comfy in our pajamas. It was a true generational hen session. Of the four, I am the only morning person and wait for someone else to break the silence and give a green light for conversation. Grandma gets up to take the percolator off the stove and begins to fill us all up; except my sister who turns her nose up to coffee and opts for tea, then makes her way over to her chair directly across from my mother.
“Wow Suzie, your nipples look like sugar cubes!”
My sister and I burst out laughing while my mom, who’s only peak emotion is anger, sarcastically responds with “thanks ma.” Silence is officially broken, and we convene.
A deep long sigh releases out of me while I hold my Yeti with both hands. There is no other sound around me these days when I have coffee. It’s just me and my two kittens as I work remote. I can tell them all my dreams and secrets but it’s not the same.
My grandmother’s doorbell rings for the fourth time that day. I can hear my Uncle Benny making his grand entrance to join me, Aunt Anna, Uncle Joey and my Aunt Del; a few of my grandma’s siblings. Benny is the baby of the ten. No hearing aids are needed. As an Entenmann’s boxed pecan danish makes its way around the table of chatty siblings, Aunt Del announces she has a secret! For a split second there is silence. She then goes on to explain how it’s important no one repeats her news, but I doubt she would be able to refrain from sharing. She’s absolutely bursting at the seams to share her bit of gossip. My grandmother, always authentic and painfully honest, responds with a big smile, “you know I can’t keep a secret, don’t tell me“ and everyone falls over laughing. That’s how it was back then. An ordinary kitchen filled with coffee, sweets, conversation and company.
Stella, my portly black, green-eyed kitty jumps up on my lap. I’m halfway through my mug of coffee and I look at the picture I taped of my grandmother on the pane between the two windows over my desk. She’s in her kitchen standing in front of the sink where she would infrequently bleach the coffee stains off her ivory mugs, staring directly at me. She’s fully dressed and holding a pack of Marlboro Lights in her left hand while two fingers of her right hand were submerged in the cigarette pack. I admire her strong hands; her big, beautiful smile, and I smile right back at her in gratitude. I feel her with me when I look at this photo and still feel her love. It’s the laughter I miss the most.
Thank you for reading!
Be well,
Tracey
We always had the Entenmann’s donuts on our kitchen table, and I would pick off all the crumbs. Thanks for bringing back that memory!
also laughing out loud at "sugar cubes" 😆