..and SPEAKING of Coffee...

...were we? Seeing how it's Monday morning, a natural topic for rumination is, "What do I need to purchase so badly that I'm getting up on a freezing cold bank holiday to stumble off to work??"

The answer is simple: coffee

If one does not work, one does not buy coffee. And as coffee is as necessary to my existence as oxygen (possibly moreso), I work-- therefore I can purchase BEAN. One of my dearest friends in the world now lives in Seattle (the Land of Coffee Snobs), and has long been one of my greatest fellow appreciatuers of a good cuppa joe. The first time I visited her home, she asked me "what kind of coffee do you want?" I braced myself to hear a litany of "flavors" like Jamocha Bliss, Butternut Surprise and Taffey-Toffee Tremor... Instead, my heart thundered to hear the love-song of a fellow coffee-addict echoing from the kitchen. She rattled off an impressive list of imported coffees-- all purchased in whole-bean form-- and then went on to ask if I "want anything in it?" We've been boon companions ever since-- united in our love of this caffeine-laden creation.

Personally, I would not consider myself to be a coffee snob* (see note in comment section). On more than one occasion I have "made do" with less than deliteful brew so that lives would be spared because I was suffering from a case of S.J.D. (Serious Java Depletion)-- a regrettable condition that has wreaked more havoc than an Astroglide shortage on Valentine's Day-- lives would be lost, fires set, relationships ended and general mayhem galore would ensue thanks to not having what you need WHEN... YOU... NEEED... IT.

I'll never forget one of my earliest house-sitting jobs for an elderly woman named Emma-Lou. The job is noteworthy 1) because she was actually IN the house while I stayed there (she needed help prior to / following cataract surgery), and 2) she made, quite possibly, the worst coffee I've ever been compelled to consume in my life. The dear soul insisted on cooking breakfast for me each morning, and as I'd made the mistake of admitting that I liked coffee, she obligingly included a full pot to the menu (all for me-- she didn't touch the stuff). NOTE: One of the few snobbery issues I have with coffee is that I want it to be strong enough so that I cannot see through the brew-pot to the other side / to the bottom of the mug (usually not a problem as I add milk). Imagine if you will then, on that first fateful morning, Wahwer looking on with horror as not only could I see the white, Mr Coffee stylized flower logo wrapping around the back of the carafe, I couldn't really even smell coffee. Most people-- both coffee drinkers and "the others"-- will tell you that the ambrosiac smell of brewing coffee ranks fairly high on their list of near-religious experiences. So to neither smell NOR see what I was being told was coffee stimulated a horror akin to realizing at 11:30 on a Sunday night that you've forgotten to write a book-report for school. You know deep in your heart that this can be survived (i.e. by pulling an all-nighter to both read & report on a book) , and that you can somehow salvage this disaster. But you're bewildered as to how such a blatant balls-up could have happened on your watch...

I survived that travesty in good form, and as those who know me will attest, coffee has in no way stunted my growth or in other ways negatively impacted the treasure that is Wahwer. I feel I am a better (and imminently more pleasant morning-person) thanks to the benevolent ministries of Juan Valdez than I ever could be without him. Juan is my friend. I have even built a shed out back for him to park his burro, Pancho, when he stops to deliver my bean supply. However, thanks to the murder / arson that happened 200 yards from my place last week, Juan has started making noises about the increasing risks of making at-home deliveries anymore. He pleads with me, his Columbian brown eyes glittering with unshed tears, saying, "Perdon a me, querida mia... I don' know how moosh longer I ken risk Panchito's life by coming to this dangerous barrio. He ees my amigo, mi companero de mas anos... I cannot leev without heem!" Faced with the chance that I might soon have to resort to honing my Hood skills to secure an uninterrupted supply of coffee to my house, I beg my readers to think of me as they greedily brew up pot after steaming pot of coffee each day. Remember that there is a poor (and I do mean poor) girl, living (just like Elvis sang) "In the Ghetto"... shuffling off to work selling pencils and apples on the corner so that she can afford to keep Juan's loving attentions intact and the flow of coffee in her veins on full bore.

I'll end my sad story now, as I'm also running low on #2 Ticonderoga's and simply must restock.