Real man coffee.

I am going to re-gift my French blend coffee beans. Got them for Christmas and perhaps someone else I might know likes French blend. Right? I don’t.

My coffee drinking mentor was my Okie farmer dad. He almost always drank his coffee black. Just coffee grounds straight from a can of Folgers. I am almost sure he never had drunk a cup of flavored coffee. No dippity doo for him. No sir! No Lattes. No cappuccinos. No Hazelnut. Not even a snicker doodle. No. None. Never knew of Starbucks.

He drank it black. No cream. No sugar. Just straight up Joe. From the time I was in kindergarten and up until the time I left home to get married, my dad had a variety of coffee making devices. Some sat atop the stove top burners and some were electric. Dripolaters, percolators, and Mr. Coffee brewers. All set to BLACK. He never ground his own. Just straight from the one pound can.

I too like my coffee plane and black. However I do prefer a good rich Columbian blend bean. I grind my own. My dad didn’t. His came straight from a can of Folgers. No messing with grinding and filtering. Just dip it into the filter basket and brew. I can vividly remember watching his first electric stainless steel pot percolating up into the little glass lid dome. An observatory to judge how dark the coffee maker was brewing. Shortly after he got another electric where he could set a little wheel to the darkness he preferred.

But to reiterate, he like his coffee dark and hot. Pour into his favorite cup without the aid of cream or sugar. Black as a domino piece. By the way his cup looked like it came from a post depression farm house in southern rural Oklahoma. A heavy white porcelain mug with a few small cracks down the side. At least fifty or sixty years old when I last saw it. And to repeat, his most favorite drinking vessel. Not sure if he ever washed it out with soap. Didn’t want to wash away its character. Just hold it under running water and set aside for the next morning’s brewing and slow slurping. Here’s to you Joe. A-a-h, oh so good.

Published by Okie Beyond borders

I come from a family who migrated from the parched red dirt Plaines of southern rural Oklahoma. Migrating to blue collar working class community of East Los Angeles. There is where I was born. I am Mr. Writermelon. I can only write what my grammar and spell checker allows. I am neither profound nor profane. Boy howdy! Send comment to: Mr.writermelon@gmail.com

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