The Coffee Guy's blog

Willowy Whispy Leave my Coffee Alone

At the heart of heat is the fire of the furnace.  6 cords and not done yet.  Stacked and racked ready for the fire.  One man’s old tree becomes another man’s cat’s heating magnet.  How can a cat covered in fur get so hot for so long so close to such heat?  Our’s, and I have seen others, cower under stoves of the fibrous burning kind endlessly soaking it in.  Their heart rate must be below one!

In the land of the climactic change, oh the world, I note trends are perceived after merely two instances of the seasonal drift.  Hmm let me take a dendrites amble back to my days of theoretical and practical combinatorics, can two define a sequence?  Nope.  Not even close when some logarithmic based sequences are created and plotted.

But in the minds of some geo-climatologists, two of anything can define long term change.  Does twenty of man’s self imposed cycles of life, (read, a year) make a geological trend?   Hmmm, let’s see.  If you can measure the tectonic plate movement in a year or ten, then I suppose yes would be the cogent answer.   However, we are looking at tens of hundreds of consistent years to sum to a defined change.  One earthquake does not a progression make.

My wood stove, on the other hand, burns consistently from day one.  A trend to the warmer and away from the frozen regions outside the four stuffed walls of our abode.   The felines immediately scrounce their way to the edge of the heat field.  Playing coy with the rising waves of radiation.  My Coffeecius Incutabius genus Arabica, rests wearily on the edge, maintaining 176 F for sipping and serving.  Too hot and the tongue tactile oils separate.  Too cold and the aroma wanes sorely back into the nectar.

No homo erectus or sapiens can laze so closely to such radiant heat.  Sweating like a Swede in a Cedar box.  My proximity is pushed back as my habiliments add up.  More means more.  I rest and sweat meters away, felines practically touching the iron.  A yell or shout raises their ire so slowly you need to be a geologist to see the movement.

And I Quote Emerson, “We think it trivial to speak of the weather, yet there is nothing more important”.  My cup spilleth forth it’s duly filled nectar, hissing as the content engages the heated cold rolled steel top of my woody firebox.  The cats scramble and the aroma of firewood is preplaced temporarily with the caramel roasted scent of burnt coffee.

Ahhhhh.  Relax me.

Mark Hull Du Calumet, First of the coterie of York, Son of Don, Scion of Karl in the House of Pfunkstadt, Connubial of Suzanne, Yeoman to the Hun of Honda, Prevailing in the Seat of Hespeler, Having been again to Australia, and now Grandad's Land.

Cursivity Croaked as the Canister Crinkled

While in motion, I had a notion to make a potion of innovation and observation.  When the newbies on the planet amass in halls of learning, a skip of the draught has left these Smucks without a Star.  The writing of yore has lest and less to be appreciated as the understanding of such cursive writing is not taught.

Yes they know what the letters mean and they know what the words mean.  But they for the life of them could not repeat the act even closely or incoherently as is mine.  While it has been postulated in my few years of cursivity, that my “hand” could not be deciphered by a college of surgeons, I still can and still do utter such astounding depictions of the written.

With a Jo close by, I can scribble out a litany of derision and discussion with the best of them.  No faster can you say Faceplant, than I can lay down enough ink to drain a well dipped stilo.  Whereas the young folk of the day, not back in it, are at a logger-head of deciphering.  Let alone scribbling their Hancock on a note, or old-style scratching out a signat’ on a cheque.

Here in the times of the keyboard, it’s not even called typing.  The olde IBM Selectric and dad’s old Underwood, had the same Quirky keys and odd config’ for a layout as these new silicone sisters have today.  The only difference is, we have flaccid pale fingers.  To merely touch and have a red key or a hot key seems eerily unnecessary.  Other than flaming a co-Qwertiest, what would the use of several fffffffffff’s or rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr’ or bbbbbbbbbbbb’ be?

But no, I even have a nut of an American overseer inside the guts of the machine I plinkle on, running around through American spelling dictionaries playing around with my typos and misdeeds.  As if I don't know what I am cursing about!  Had I been doing this cursively, there need not bee any You Ess of Eh inside my ballpoint.  I could get away with noughts of thoughts without having to drop a You, or mispronunciate a French verb.

So when you can scratch out the seven deadly sins and the anthropologic basis of such in a cursive script faster than I can toe tip around this flatboard, then I will read your blog too.  Thanx for the seed DH.

 Mark Hull Du Calumet, First of the coterie of York, Son of Don, Scion of Karl in the House of Pfunkstadt, Connubial of Suzanne, Yeoman to the Hun of Honda, Prevailing in the Seat of Hespeler, Having been again to Australia, and now Grandad's Land.

 

Cold Coffee for Cold Thoughts

Who’d a thunk?  Well the Jo and Java crankers, Espresso and Cappa crowd, Turkish or Americano Europeaneates, or one of the five types of bean lovers never suspected a cold version.

First let’s take the aroma and image of coffee.  Without cup in hand, think it over.  First the swirling steam rising and the warmth of the waft as it caresses your septum entering your proboscis.  Is any of this possible if the water were cold?

Secondly let’s explore the possibility of getting the bean to release the tawny nectar using frigid water.   Well after a millisecond’s though let’s not wait that long. It will not happen. 

So one fine concessioner forgets to turn the heating element on, and serves a cold coffee through the thoughtless fingers of some adolescent “Barista”.  The laggard at hand actually likes it and comes back to mention this banality.  Next day, menu has a new item.  “Forgetful Coffee”.

Not a big seller and shoulda’ stayed that way.  Remarketed by some west-ender or east-ender if that is where the La La landers in your city reside.  Now not only is it made, it’s still claimed to be a Cuppa.

This trifle should be banned by national edict.  In fact, seeing as how I have the good Stephen’s ear, I think this may become high on the docket as we forge ahead in our sloth-like progress through the next session in sitting. 

Twenty cents of every dollar sold from this frigid formula will be remitted as a tithe of repentance to The Coffee Guy. Oh did I say that?  Sounds like a reason to push the sloth a little further down the branch.  And to any and all who foist this feather to their MP, they will receive meagre considerations after my trough diving is complete.

For those of the StarSchmuck’s bent, get over it.  Anything small and tall at the same time not being the CN Tower should definitely not be marketed as cold as well.  Injury added to the insult already might or might not henceforth or pre-posed to be deleterious to the brand being sustained.  Let’s get is straight even for those who litigate over the fact that coffee is a hot beverage.  It is not to be confused with colas or teas.  Ugghhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.  I just expectorated.  Perhaps more facts than are warranted at this time of the day.

Mark Hull Du Calumet, First of the coterie of York, Son of Don, Scion of Karl in the House of Pfunkstadt, Connubial of Suzanne, Yeoman to the Hun of Honda, Prevailing in the Seat of Hespeler, Having been again to Australia, and now Grandad's Land.