Cold, hard facts

Long before popular science nudged coffee onto the “good for you” list, I had adopted it as a health food.

Back then, the pots full of drip Folgers I drank every day took the place of smoking a full pack of Camels. 

Decades later, it’s entirely possible that the fluid coursing around inside my veins is a blackish brown in color and almost altogether caffeinated. 

Since I don’t add cream or sugar, I’ve assumed my beverage of choice would factor into at least 10 of the eight doctor-recommended glasses of water per day.

I’m knocking on a wood-based product as I tell you I can have a bedtime double espresso and still fall asleep at night. 

Now, I would wear this addiction proudly on my sleeve was it not for two tiny problems: the fact that I am spending the kids’ college education on single serve’s $45-per-pound equivalent; and the K-Cup mountain of trash for which I must also account.

Only two of the cups’ three component parts are recyclable: the foil lid and the paper filter. The cup itself is neither recyclable nor compostable. 

Oh sure, I have a set of green refillable pods taking up space in some kitchen drawer. I may have even used them once or twice before the mess of filling and cleaning and refilling convinced me the taste of the brew just wasn’t the same.

I tried to offset my callus return to disposables by reusing the pods as receptacles for seedlings. However, it soon became apparent we don’t have the acreage to support the farm my coffee habit would produce.

Of course, it isn’t just the pods that pile up in the trash. The machines themselves also seem to be disposable; as not a single device has lasted in our house for more than two years.

Meanwhile, somewhere in Vermont, my aunt is percolating a pot of coffee in the same hollow silver urn that my parents gave her as a wedding present a more than a half-century ago.

Which is what I imagine as I try unsuccessfully to descale our sixth single-serve monster in nine years.

I give up the ghost when the contraption groans like the undead.  My decaffeinated mind has already begun to fray. I even contemplated taking my mug to the next door neighbor and pressing my nose against their kitchen window until they let me inside.

My husband —  with two-cup limit — says nothing as he rummages through a cabinet and unearths an old aluminum octagonal stovetop espresso maker, dusts it off and fills it’s lower chamber with water. 

In the time it takes to boil water he’s magically turned three tablespoons of coffee into two mugs of nothing short of delicious.

Just a few taps of the filter, the swish of a bottle brush and a swirl of warm

water (no soap) and all that’s left is a bit of compost and a clean Moka. 

“I’ve also been thinking about getting a cold brew filter. You store a jar of it in the fridge and heat it up whenever you want. I understand the coffee tastes smoother, too.”

His voice seems far away as I hold my cup up to my chin, gripping it with two hands and inhaling deeply. 

I stare at this work of art in the dish drainer. I can almost picture myself divorced from the convenience of single serve and reintroduced to elegant ingenuity. My life’s blood thinner, maybe, but just as robust.

Maybe even get out from under this plastic mountain of guilt.

“They say cold is the new hot.”