William Penn Life, 2011 (46. évfolyam, 1-12. szám)

2011-11-01 / 11. szám

jjP Tibor's Take with Tibor Check, Jr.

The coffee pot

DID YOU EVER have one of those days (or weeks) when your good intentions blow up in a such a way that you wonder how it happened so fast and so destructively?

I have to tell you of my recent experience and how it turned into a lesson in family history and tradition.

Just as September came to an end, the temperature dropped, and the first frost of the season abruptly ended our supply of homegrown tomatoes. For the next 10 days,

we had relentless rain, cold and wind. My mom brought up our eight-cup coffee pot from the cellar, and the familiar PLUP-PLUP sound of the percolator pumping robust smelling coffee sent a strong essence throughout the kitchen and adjoining rooms of our home.

I am not a fan of coffee, per se. Freshly brewed coffee smells great, but the taste leaves much to be desired. On the other hand, my parents love their kávé hot, strong and bold tasting. Mom and dad got their indoctrination into coffee consumption at an early age. Their parents and grandparents served them coffee mixed with a liberal dose of cream from Mrs. Szuc's Jersey cows. The coffee itself was strong enough to clean chrome. That's no exaggeration~my father actually has used some of his leftover coffee to clean small metal parts.

One Saturday, my brother and sister were at work before 6:00 in the morning. My parents were sleeping, and the house was chapel quiet. I decided to stealthily go to the kitchen and surprise them by making a fresh, hot pot of coffee. As I reached to get the can of Maxwell Flouse, I decided to save a step or two and simultaneously bring down the coffee pot from the same shelf of the cupboard. As I reached up for the can with my left hand, I used my right to grab the Pyrex pot. As I grabbed the smooth glass handle of the pot, a jar of lekvár on the shelf immediately below began to fall off. Instinctively, I reached to catch the prune delight. Unfortunately, I lost my grip of the pot handle and a short but unsuccessful attempt to juggle and catch the delicate glass container proved to be futile.

As the pot slammed onto the oak floor, most of the parts shattered into a thousand pieces of jagged-ice-like shrapnel. Except for the aluminum strainer and the handle, all had been destroyed. The crashing noise woke my parents as they scrambled and tripped their way down the steps. I screamed for them to stop in their tracks. Any further advancement into the hazard ridden floor would have led to massive cuts and injuries to their feet. Luckily for me, I had on slippers and socks, without which my injuries would have most certainly been serious. After extensive scolding, confusion and cleaning, the once glistening schooner of brewing efficiency would be but a distant memory. After I explained to my parents what happened, their k anger and disappointment transformed into a trip down memory lane.

I learned that the coffee pot was well over 60 years old. It served countless cups of coffee through weddings, wars, funerals and sleepless nights waiting for kids to come home from work or dates. It was