Never Enough

Rain, shine, cold or hot.

Love my coffee, my last vice

Liquid comfort hug.

Cowboy Coffee at Sunrise

Well, it's been years since I've been camping. But I'm glad that the knowledge seems to arrive in my head just as I need it. It's been a really long time since I had to light a lamp to cook on the grill too. Bet you didn't know you could make eggs and toast on the grill...did ya? I'm REALLY glad we got the grill with the side burner. The day we got it I couldn't imagine what we'd use it for.

For those of you who were without electricity and jonesing for a cup of hot java I offer you the recipe for Cowboy Coffee:

Fill a pan with water. You'll have to measure it so you know how much coffee to add. Measure out your coffee. I use a scoop for every two cups and one for the pot. Boil. I don't mean simmer. I mean rolling boil. And when all the grounds drop to the bottom of the pan, it's ready to drink.

It ain't Starbucks, but it'll do.

Instant Awake

It’s been just over a decade since I awakened to the little voice calling me “Mommy”. It’s as if the word itself is the cue for a spotlight to shine on me. And heeeeeeeeeere’s ...Mommy!
 I slept without moving, lulled by the cloudy sky’s faraway thunder and constant dripping rain outside our window. It’s the kind of sleep that makes you want to roll over and keep sleeping. The kind of beautiful not-a-care-in-the-world sleep where you’ve temporarily forgotten the work week has just begun. The kind of sleep that one wishes for on Saturdays and holidays.
But at six a.m. my youngest, now 17, tiptoed into my room, to my side of the bed. I’d slept past the 5a.m.wakeup time.
“Mommy?” I have slept through alarm clocks upon occasion. I have even forgotten to set them. and in recent years I’ve let my circadian rhythm, nearly perfected after all these years, wake me up at a now routine time. Very few things cause it to fail, sickness, time changes or jetlag, though I admit, all alarms have failed at some point. But my eyes never fail to pop wide open and my mind to be so crystal clear as the utterance of that single word.
“Mommy?” She surveyed my face trying to interpret if I was angry, worried or, really awake.
“What is it?” Thankfully there was no immediate crisis. Although her presence in my room meant something significant was afoot.
“There’s no coffee,” she said, stoneware coffee mug in hand. Then an afterthought. “And it’s 6 o’clock.”
I’m glad she gave me the important news first. And I was thankful for the unplanned extra hour of sleep. It made rushing around getting everyone ready for the day’s destiny a little easier to handle.

Plateau Crack

“We’re going to keep an eye on your cholesterol,” the doctor said three years ago. “At 195 It’s a little toward the high side.” I frowned. I had traded my bagels with a schmear for eggs and toast when Prevention magazine claimed people who eat protein in the morning lose more weight. No amount of walking, starving or exercise made a dent. Although I never expanded, things solidified or got mushier depending on activity level. I took up walking. Sporadically.
Median level cholesterol was the only blemish on an otherwise clean bill of health, so I skipped doctors, until year three crept to its end. Gordo reminded me that he’s paying for insurance, tests and preventive measures that need taken advantage of before fiscal year’s end—ten days away.
A flurry of phone calls produced a flurry of appointments, all landing in the sacred week. After a fasting blood test, the doctor on the other end of the phone sounds concerned.
“Your cholesterol is 245.” WHAT? “I’m sending information about how to reduce it. We’ll check it again in a year. If it hasn’t changed we’ll talk about meds.”
There’s only been one change in my diet in the last six months. Eggs. I use olive oil or nonstick spray to medium-fry two eggs, skipping cheese and sausage. I toast two slices of multigrain bread no butter or spread, pile it up and eat it like a stack of pancakes. Sometimes I drink juice, I always have coffee.

Still, no one comments about my weight, othe unbreakable plateau for three years and there are no pre-diabetic indicators (thank God). So, I resolve to double check the types of fats in my snacks (Crackers have bad fats???) and nix the eggs.

The next week of mornings, standing in front of the fridge nothing sounds appealing. What do I eat now? I despise oatmeal, dislike cereal, and gave up my daily bagels for eggs and toast. Although a bowl of berries may get me through this fall, what will an oatmeal hater eat this winter?

Meanwhile, I’ve lost four pounds.

Coffee with Dad

I'd taken the last of Dad's old books to sell. I have to say, this place had enough books-in-waiting to start another store, which told me I probably wouldn't be getting much for my half-dozen.

They called my name and made an offer that was the equivalent of two cups of coffee and a tip. Slightly insulted, I decided to take the offer, because I thought this might be Dad's way of treating my daughter and me to coffee.
I talked to my her about it and we decided that the next time we stopped for coffee, Dad was buying.

Later in the evening, in one of our favorites haunts, Barnes and Noble, we stood at the Starbucks counter ordering half-and-half venti's. When we got them, we both said thanks to Dad and sat at a little round table perusing interesting books we might buy.

I paged through a thick magazine size book of Post Secrets. It started as a comunity art project where people made postcards regarding a secret they've been carrying around, things they can't seem to say aloud, or to the person they want to tell. Some have been carrying these burdens for years--decades even-- and they send them to an address. Since it's inception lf less than five years, the creator of the concept has received more than 150,000 postcards from around the world. He published them in a volume of which, there are three. He also has a site: postsecret.com . ( I can't vouch for the purity of this site or its language. Look at your own risk.)

Many of them touched me, but one in paricular really got to me. When the writer's father died she was disturbed that she had not dreamt about him since. She wanted him to tell her he was alright. She happened to mention it to a friend, and that night, she had a lovely dream about him holding her face, telling her he was fine. Yeah....I'm feeling the first part of that one.

I'm saving the paper sleeve and dating it so I can remember having coffee with Dad this way.

While I looked at books, I felt particularly drawn to "God Will Make a Way" by Townsend and Cloud. It's practically a writing prompt book. I loved the questions which are designed to get one thinking, realizing and begin healing.
So we each got one.

Thanks, Dad. Coffee and Advice. You're the best.