The Coffee Guy's blog

Concerns of Coffee Confuse the Conscious

No goat will know better.  No goat will not eat cherries. No goat ate my coffee cherries.  Yup, they are not beans, they are roasted cherry pits.  The African villager who found frisky fonts of energy when he shepherded his flock away back, knew at that point he was in for some fun.  Lest it be known that the process was refined much later.

Whilst those in the know are aware, there are two “coffees”, the Arabica and the Robusta.  What you pour into your vessel now is either a blend of the two, a crossbreed of the two, or one or the other.  Both have functions in the flavour and aroma departments. 

Robusta the necessary part of the Crème for an espresso blend, the deep rich flavour of Arabica for the dainty an undeveloped palate.  Roasting methods and procedures also play a part in flavour development.  As well, the level of caffeine varies between the two with Robusta being the higher of the two.  Shape and other factors are more market sensitive and have no influence on flavour.

Futures on Coffee have nearly doubled over the past year, with Covid issues, fuel, transport bottle necks, and economic issues in general fueling the fire.  The future is fine otherwise, caffeinated for sure.  What has not changed it the roaster community growth.  While some are good and some are bad, others have consistency problems, on the whole the breadth of options has increased.

The down side of small independent operators and their numbers growing, is the certification and quality control of the final product.  Large producers know and can control chaff and shell amounts.  These are things in your coffee that make for bulk and weight but deliver no taste or quality.  Of course, the best coffee is milled in home immediately before brewing.  But who doesn’t love the aroma of freshly opened bags of ground coffee?

A big home brew mistake is getting a “basher” rather than a “mill” grinder.  A basher has blades that spin very fast and just bash the coffee “beans” apart.  A mill has two plates through which the “beans” are guided and slowly rolled apart to a certain size. 

Any way you lie your coffee, take the time to enjoy all stages from sourcing to drinking.  Take note of your likes and dislikes to avoid waste and distaste. 

Coffee for the Nation today Clarissa, Make it national.

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, and for some, from The Dark Side. Not am Main nor ab der Elba, but down the Donau, and with Turkish Chai. #garagelurker2019, also A.C., Cee Minus.

Lets Loquate about Ludicrous Lockdowns

There are three types of lock-down.  Type one is languishing.  Type two is lovingly.  Type three is ludicrous.  Each on its own can be desirable or destructive.  Once implemented there is not switching form yon to fro.  Stone etching is as permanent.

Exploring alone will glean insight and instruction.  Once I was on a beach in a far-off land west of here.  I had no resources to leave, desire to move, or ability to select other options in life.  The sand, white and warm, slipped through my toes like four little hour glasses ticking off the duration of entrapment in granular form.  There was glee and glasses as we swam in the sunlight and saltwater.

The desire to depart was unknown.  The want of tergiversation into ways of olde had vanished form our cranial reserves.  Sated on the sand was our stead.  Gladly locked down on a nearly vacant stretch of sand in a far-off dominion.  Thus was our way, opted in willfully and with wanton need of the environs.

Locked down into love with that person who returns the affection is also done uncompromisingly.  That lode of thanks for lust lets one languish in time.  We spare nothing to bring what we need to the other.  What one speaks the truth to unfalteringly.  We could harvest hours of pleasure just in that company.  Crave for more as our eyes turn shortly away.  Return to look again and be even more in need of the same.

Passing the ticks of time is endless yet unknown.  We can pronate here until time immemorial.  Or till that time as we all pass on.  Further and farther, fonder and for ever.  The locks of this jail are willingly left clasped together.  The key not sought and the lock rusting over.  Glad of our stead in life.

The final lock-down is ludicrous.  Un wanted, un willing, un wished for, un washed, and un worked.  The raison d’etre and sanctification is that not of our doing, but that of others.  Wanton wry wrist constraints, mental or physical are not ours.  We posit options and opinions erstwhile denied.  Say that which our druthers expect.  Unfortunately, the shackles are clasped too tightly to shake. 

The key unknown and tossed in the detritus of life.  Speed forth and solemnify extrication.  We are leaving.  Lost and listless.  Southbound and slipping the light fantastic in our loins.  Get me hack home.

List it as a Latte and froth it up Lily.

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, and for some, from The Dark Side. Not am Main nor ab der Elba, but down the Donau, and with Turkish Chai. #garagelurker2019, also A.C., Cee Minus.

Yen and Yearn for Your Yesterday

When what I did when comes around, I polish off the old and revel in the new.  The platitude, “get back to normal” is in error.  What I yen for is a new day where masks and protocols are not in the mix.  Why would I go back?  Where would I lead me?  I want to break free, to quote a good songster.

They yore of yesteryear will never return except in your yearnings.  Worry not of the past, not of the future, but of what you can control now.  Dr Leo Buscaglia posited this some 35 years ago.  It holds true today.  The coming year will determine following years.  Will things change?  Yes.  Will they be something you know now? No.

The tomorrow of wishers is the fluff filling the interweb thingy with trash.  Trash talking the world away will get you less of the more.  Working your world into what you want will guide you to that which is desired.  We all desire something different.  We all wish for the nought and the hole.  Wish for the torus, not the void.

Substance is that which you can, vapour is untouchable.  Could the secret service use it and find the money?  Nope.  Only consume what you can use, use it wisely.  Only purchase what you can carry, employ, or ply.  Storage lockers around the world belie the folly of the past.  “I though I would.”  “I was going to.”  “I need that.”  Fair estimations of decisions fraught with fallacy.

The future is not going back to “normal”. It has been to long, move along. Move with stealth, determination, and fortitude.  The fray is not to be joined, but to be directed.  Move with earnest tenacious resolve.  This will pull and sway that which you want closer.  Anything less is imprudence. 

In chess, the game, your move is unreturnable.  There is no stale date, no period of limitations, no undo function.  You will survive the board if the process of movement is correct. Your King will fall to folly.  Flake that bark off gently, the tree survives by covering it base.  Scarring and marring will lead to dried out membranes and life loss.

Perked piques my palate Paula, Pour slowly.

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, and for some, from The Dark Side. Not am Main nor ab der Elba, but down the Donau, and with Turkish Chai. #garagelurker2019, also A.C., Cee Minus.

Ire Isn’t Always Instantly ad Infinitum

Muse what you might from misinformation.  Mine came as a mind storm of mania.  While I am rarely in a state of Ire, at times it’s a good vent for steam in the cranium.  The flushed face of irritancies shows well the extent of one’s pulchritude.

Not my place to judge, my place to allow the effluvial nature exude.  The delight of seeing calm within a stormy offering allows the writer to delight.  It came as a realization when having a parley.  Observation is all part f the act of listening.  You can hear with your eyes and ears.  Similar to tasting with your nose.

Mine is not the Ire I mention, its other’s which is more pleasing.  Whilst I can dredge up that situation which can push you into the state of which we speak, that is not the direction to which I might leadst thou.  Mere mention of a mnemonic might make you muster or mutter.  My favourite from years in higher education was FSYLDSSRB.  Call me if you know.

Don’t let your Ire out if you don’t.  The only flushed face this season should be on the red togged sorts.  Relinquished rallies of rants brings the beauty of colour of your mien.  Are you the emotive type internally or externally?  That within is with all.  I can visually ingest that for days or nights or both. 

Short today Shirley, make it strong.

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, and for some, from The Dark Side. Not am Main nor ab der Elba, but down the Donau, and with Turkish Chai. #garagelurker2019, also A.C., Cee Minus.

Secrets in Society, or Society in Secrets

Sussing out sisters of the nation is difficult at the best of times, Sistering any Joist in a descent Joint can be tedious if nothing else.  And so the tomb of knowledge buries itself in a miasma of societal indifference.  “They” used to call it the “Pablum of the Masses”, well I did, now it’s the incessant race to the bottom of the lowest common denominator.

Passive indifference is the same as passive anything.  One always needs a driver, three eighths or better.  When the world changes at a pace not seen since Ole man Ford made a line, we need guides and getters, finders and fixers.  I was “retired”, have never been busier.

I need to find ANOTHER job to get some time off.   My casual time is at other’s behests.  The telephonic devices have taken over.  I will be on Hiatus for the following 30 days, getting me nearer to the 7th millennium.  There are a select few that can circumvent the ignorant.  There has never been a time more Tome-like than the present. 

I could write a river to the Amazon and still not let the flood gates abate.  Whence cometh the 12 days?  That is when I go on line for the duodecimus days of Christmas songs.   Some old, most new.  I am not a fan of the minor key pushing melancholy out.  It’s a good exercise, and difficult practice. 

Wouldst, thou have this any other way?  If you listen, I appreciate it.  If not, you too will just be part of the Masses dining on Pablum for days and weeks.  Think of the joy and bliss. Delve in delight at delusional dreams of delinquency.  There will be noshing and drinking along the way.  What is your preference for libations?  Perhaps I join you in one.

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, and for some, from The Dark Side. Not am Main nor ab der Elba, but down the Donau, and with Turkish Chai. #garagelurker2019, also A.C., Cee Minus.

Art for Art’s Sake, No Drink, No Beholding

I could orate in Latin; less knowledge can be a blessing.  But, in the eye of the unwashed, we see what our head perceives not that which may be in front of us.  While our window on the world is said to be the interpreter of information, its actually some varying portion of out grey matter which holds that key.

I wile away at times wondering about the ways of the world.  My cognition changes the views both metaphorically and in reality.  The problem-solving perspective changes post haste and periodically.  This is intuitively called ingenuity.  We all have less and more at times of what we want and need.  The brain pulls what it wants, and filters the unneeded as it sees fit.

Cogito ergo sum.  But who is the “I”? Does your brain allow you for vision beyond the pale?  Or are you myopic in your perception?  How is it that Van Gogh can see the Stary Night in such a way that transcends time, culture, age, and date?  Where did Monet sit in Paris for us to instantly recognise the scene?

Why does a stone David imbue so much emotion?  It is impossible to understand why we all see the same “ish” vision of reality, emote similarly, and understand in much the same way out view of the world?  Plato and his shadows on the cave wall only exacerbate the question while making it simpler.  The visual is only tainted by our nature and how we were nurtured.  

Would education make us see the same?  If one beholds a beauty, why are some not attracted?  I know one, I see one, no one sees the same one.  It is a question of billions of connexions zapping and popping in a ball sized dome atop our backs.  When I say blue, what do you see?  Denim or azure?  Robbin’s egg or Sea?

I ponder endlessly on this. 

Curve that pour Corinne, I want to see the amber nectar steam.

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, and for some, from The Dark Side. Not am Main nor ab der Elba, but down the Donau, and with Turkish Chai. #garagelurker2019, also A.C., Cee Minus.

A Muse in C, D, and E Major

The C and the Corinth are both standards.  Strong, original, and of integrity.  I can start elsewhere, however it must all begin here.  Ideas arise from the interplay of basic tenets.  Diversion arises from the crossplay of ideas bounced and rebounded from a Muse.  I am sure in Ancient Greece each Muse mustered when hailed.

Outcomes may vary regardless of the starting point.  On treks to the hinterland the routes may vary.  Origin and development use different goals and objectives arriving at dissimilar yet surprisingly related accomplishments.  Once set on, the paths may vary at nodes and forks, junctures and cruxes.

It is not my definition to have ideas, it is my destiny to bring them forth as my Muse posits perturbations for me to ponder.  These meetings come too infrequently a times and timely at times.  What kernel needs planting, seed needs sewing, or germ needs promotion?  Each time I near the end another yaw in the ship of my mind swings me in another direction.

Dakar, the destination, as a Muse.  Otherwise, thoughts are oft arrived at from the end.  If you have a realization to which an explanation ought to be attached, your Muse may enlighten you.  Paris – Dakar A rally like no other.  It has a known destination, the Muse will spirit the how.  Whence you travel through sand and water, deep and steep, it will not be an easy excursion.  Trouble abounds simply in the obstacles and the terrain. 

My Dakar Muse provides the end, the trials and tribulations are mine.  Many times, a start is unknown.  How to get from some where to there?  How to arrive at your destination not knowing from where to begin?  It can be a situation where the problem is unknown or obfuscated by the obvious.   Or so close to your ocular organs its hard to see.

In the Key of E, everything has an equilibrium eventually.  As I muse about my Muse, eloquence and elegance elates me.  Even further to the truth about being everything to everyone every time.  E types are everywhere, one I wish was in my garage, and one I have.  Exasperation is not far afield.

In the end, the keys are key.  I enjoy the C, D, and E’s.  Off note or on key, the ability to stimulate thought and ideas is a cherished place to hold court.  I muster daily for the strength to use that which is near, to make that which is further, closer.

Make Music as you pour Milly, I like the sounds of Java in the morning.

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, and for some, from The Dark Side. Not am Main nor ab der Elba, but down the Donau, and with Turkish Chai. #garagelurker2019, also A.C., Cee Minus.

Cee Minus Days are Here

Cee (pronounced “see”) is a referent to the type of virus infecting the orb.  We have had enough information.  It is time to ween ourselves and the media off the feeding tube of this ovine teat.  As we are in the days of A.C. it will be hard to explain: as well there is still a substantial part of the vox populi to quote Bob Segarini that have not yet subscribed.

In the olde weekly format, we will have one day in seven on which we hear no Cee News, information, statistics, or rants.  This will prevail for four rotations of the seven-day periods.  Following the four weeks of one Cee Minus days, we will transition into 2 Cee Minus days for the next 4 seven day cycles.

As you can observe, there is a progression here.  If you cannot see this, perhaps you can start at the beginning again and catch up.  Following the second four-week cycle of 2 Cee minus days, we will progress to 3 full Cee Minus days in every seven-day cycle. And as before, it will continue for 4 seven day-cycles.

The weening process has always been hard, and there will be casualties.  Social media will falter and sputter.  News agencies will have to bring back sessions promoted by soap ads.  Pundits will need to finds substantive issues to blather on about.  Politicians will now be able to get back to the job of governing without the incessant daily press conferences.  The masses can get back to work, shopping, dining, and entertainment.

The unemployed and the unemployable can get back to work.  Travel will arise from the miasma.  Your personal and outward demeanor will flourish like a flower in the spring.  Purpose will return to your cognition, allowing creativity and freedom.  The corporate big wigs can move on in confidence that economic growth is here again.

This is a simple program people, get behind it, and move on.  In a mere 200 days, (we will be nearing A.C. 800 then) we can perhaps ring in the new millennium A.C. 1000 completely Cee Minus.

Celebrate the Coffee Caren, it’s a pouring 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, and for some, from The Dark Side. Not am Main nor ab der Elba, but down the Donau, and with Turkish Chai. #garagelurker2019, also A.C., Cee Minus.

The Fall of Autumn is Upon Us

With the Equinox nigh, that which falls will tell the tale.  In the age of A.C. (see previous posts on this blog) is it an omen that the date this Fall will be on A.C. 555?  In Byzantine days of yore, Justinian the First fell from grace.  As you know the writer is not so superstitiously bent.  However, one does draw enjoyment from coincidence.

Jung read it as synchronicity.  The world is connected as dendrites in your brain.  The dimming of evening and morning illumination leads me to ever yearn more for the outside.  My pacific morning coffee now held in my dark hand has invisible steam creating dew on my wrist.

Coolness factors in on the days as they warm and cool faster and more augmentedly.  The rise and fall of the mercury almost wavelike.  Soon will come those who have not read about Ferris in my posts.  The numbers run in my head almost by memory.  Please don’t pump that kin of pie.  We all are aware of the misgivings of that pap being ingested.

Summer days faded into Autumn, cooling the air and stilting growth.  Soon cooler days and moderate nights will bring colours in trees and the greys of Fall.  Rain to feed through the winter, stores of nutrients awaiting the freeze.  No languishing animals now: all filling their larders with winter food.

Should I too amass more to store?  The filling of the pantry not high on my list: I prefer to minimize not maximize.  Lest there be a shortage, I will go guerilla.  Raid my neighbours and pilfer from the unaware.  Preparation is in the mind of the expectant.  My slithy toves abound in the ‘hood.  I can get it if I need it.

I have but one cranium that I need to fill.  That is my only desire. All other materiel’s can be gotten and forgotten too easily.   That which resides inside is what is hard to find and retain.  If education were a need, too many would be starving.  The forgotten organ to be fed the pablum of the universe until its able to gnaw of larger bites of the steak of life.

Too many rely on the ubiquitous “they” for cognitive sustainability.  Sustenance of not always nutritious.  There must be a feeding of the frontal and parietal lobes as much as the pecs and lats. Read other than news, digest data and dossiers, glean from good reads, its not all a 24-hour news cycle.

Slip some sugar in the black today, Shirley, I like it French.

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, and for some, from The Dark Side. Not am Main nor ab der Elba, but down the Donau, and with Turkish Chai. #garagelurker2019, also A.C.

Pepe Purloined Plants from my Plot

Morning coffee enriches the blend by being drank outside.  Surveying the swath of land before me I sight damage done, the deed complete.  10 or 12 stalks horizontal with ears missing or ravaged.  I provide a sumptuous crop of grass full of bugs for you to excavate while in turn you aerate my lawn.  Is there no respect in your world my fair Mephitis mephitis.

And no, that is not a misprint, you, must use both terms for the stripped skunk.  I surmise that because u have a skin of his brethren on my motorcycle seat, he is getting back at me.  Such petty animalistic behavior.   I thought more of you.

The pictures I posted and video I shot of you posturing around in the rising of the sun, you owe me more.  I don’t smell and you don’t stink, except in an actionable way.  Should I litigate?  Would that make you happy?  Would you feel exonerated in your peeling and gnawing on my corn patch?

I know we are not “on the land” per se, but you could have asked.  I can fetch machine grown cobs any time.   Hand grown is so much sweeter, it only shows your snooty dietary preferences for the best.   Let me tell you the best is yet to come if your behaviour persists.  I too can get my own Skunk pelt locally if need be.  Take heed my striped friend.

At the juncture I am leaning toward the LePew, more than the Pepe.

Pour some deep filtered, Fanny.

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, and for some, from The Dark Side. Not am Main nor ab der Elba, but down the Donau, and with Turkish Chai. #garagelurker2019, also A.C.