Based on the junk mail that comes in, the lady who used to live in this apartment was some kind of interior designer. She must have been a pretty high-end one because sheʼs constantly getting solicitations from companies trying to get her business. Last week, UPS delivered three boxes of candy from a lighting company trying to score her business.
I donʼt know if the lights are any good, but the candy was excellent.
Todayʼs coffee is Macaw Coffee Roastersʼ Peaberry Jamaican Blue Mountain. It comes from a husband-and-wife team who seem to take a lot of pride in their little operation. Enough that they include a letter with the coffee explaining their background, and how they roast the beans.
The beans are a lot smaller and lighter than every other coffee Iʼve bought this year, so I wasnʼt expecting much, but itʼs really quite good. I guess the small size yields the “Peaberry” appellation. And the light color is because itʼs a blonde roast, which I recently learned means roasting the beans only until they just start to crack.
Darcie asked me why I think itʼs good, and I couldnʼt give her a proper answer. I donʼt have the coffee sommelierʼs vocabulary for it. I usually use a Splenda in a very small cup, and then add a little cream to improve the viscosity, because I like my coffee the way I like my women: short and thick.
Today I learned that when you see a vacuum cleaner making perfect clean lines through a patch of dirt in a television commercial, itʼs not actually dirt. Itʼs 20 ounces of freshly ground coffee.
I learned this by accidentally dumping 20 ounces of freshly ground coffee on the kitchen counter. And the floor. And the cat, who bolted out of there like a four-wheeler at the start of a cross-country mud race, spewing coffee everywhere.
Still, the vacuum works pretty good. And making perfect clean lines through the debris is very soothing.
Todayʼs coffee is Starbucks Christmas Blend. Not to be confused with Holiday Blend.
Holiday Blend is much more widely distributed than Christmas Blend. When I lived in Seattle, you couldnʼt find it at all. Here, itʼs available if you hunt for it, and I managed to get this one delivered.
Itʼs good. Iʼm not sure what makes it Christmassy. It doesnʼt taste of peppermint or elves or anything. Itʼs heavier than Blonde, but not going to mug you in an alley like Italian Roast. Itʼs just a shade darker than Pike Place, in my estimation. Itʼs a good coffee since I like my coffee the way I like my women: ordinary, but elusive.
Iʼve decided that grief is an ocean: it comes in waves. The waves get bigger and the waves get smaller and sometimes the sea is calm. The tide still comes in occasionally from my fatherʼs death, and that was almost 25 years go. I expect this will happen with my mother, as well.
When we lived in apartments in Chicago and Houston and Seattle and elsewhere, we always had real trees. Then when we moved into the big house here, we always had fake trees. Counterintuitive. Now that weʼre in an apartment again, I went real once more.
Darcie sent a picture of the tree to her sister, and sheʼs convinced itʼs fake. Itʼs sad when people are so used to fake things they think the real thing is inferior. Iʼm guilty of that, too. Banana-flavored ice pops tastes way better than actual bananas.
Annie shows zero interest in the Christmas tree. While I appreciate the lack of mischief, she really is a poor cat.