Making Do -- the Coffee edition

I’ll be straight with you, reader, the sporadic-ness of my blogs of late has as its root two primary causes:

1.        The Officer’s commissioning

2.        We sold our sub-suburban house on the plains near DIA

 

and bought a house on the very tippy-top of a mountain in a canyon next to Golden. 

 

 

This means between feting an almost-two-years-in-the-making commitment, and sorting, purging, packing, and subsequently unpacking every loving thing we own, I’ve been a trifle distracted.  I started a list of the things I wanted to tell you about.  It’s around here somewhere.  But since I’m not unpacked yet, far from it in fact, the theme of my days has been: I have no idea where _{insert desired item here}__ is. 

I know that I should be plugging away now that the minis are in school, but I.am.so.sick.of.cardboard.boxes!  I know: first world problems. {spoiler – an upcoming post will tell you how we’re going to deal with our first world problems as a family} Additionally, I’m as organized as a schizophrenic’s thought process so trying to find a place-for-everything so that everything can go in its place is exhausting for me.  Thus I’m sitting down today to do what my states-away bestie told me to do: fill you in on the amusing anecdotes that come from a complete lifestyle-altitude change. 

Over the next few weeks (months?), as we adjust to our rural mountain life, I’ll share with you a few of the challenges we’ve encountered since moving in – please be mindful while reading these posts that NONE of these are complaints.  These posts will merely be a chronology of the humorous (at least in hind sight) circumstances we’ve encountered as we adjust to life on top of the mountain.  I have no doubt there will be many.    

Today, let’s talk about something of utmost import:

COFFEE

Last Christmas my parents, knowing what an addict they had in their daughter, moi, bestowed upon me one of those almost-instant, single-serve coffee machines.  I dubbed him, Kevin; and as much as one can have affection for an inanimate object, I loved him.  He’s been working faithfully, day in and day out since I opened the boxed and determined to try as many of his complimentary samplers as I could in one day.  I used only filtered water, our plains water being entirely too hard for him.  I cleaned him often.  And because he was so trusty a servant, I donated my old coffee-maker/carafe combo.  No need to have a cluttered kitchen when Kevin was so good at his job.

You’ll notice I’m speaking of him in the past tense.  Two days ago, Kevin quit working.    

Kevin is on the right; his cousin, Karl, is on the left.

I am told, by the trusted sources on the interwebs, that what ails him is an easy fix.  He needs “descaling,” which means there are deposits on his heating element that need removing.  The answer for this is equally simple: Undistilled White Vinegar. 

Easy, that is, unless one lives at the top of a mountain. 

Prior to our move, I was within 5 minutes of a number of national stores that would stock this simple kitchen necessity.  Today, the nearest store (not including the gas station or liquor store, interestingly enough those are in the village) is 40 minutes away.  One way.  This means, reader, that I’m not hoping into the car for a quick jaunt to pick up the one item that I need.  I make a list of what we’re gonna need in the coming weeks, and on “City Day” (yep, we call it that. seriously) we all bundle into the car and procure the items on said list.  City Day isn’t scheduled until Saturday.    

Thus, Kevin is out of commission until the vinegar has been procured. 

What then, you must be asking, am I doing about my coffee?  Yesterday, I went without.  Ugh.  And I took a three hour nap.  And went to bed right after the minis.  Not exactly a practical option, considering I’m supposed to be unpacking our house.  And we won’t mention the migraines that are eminent in the next stage my withdrawal. 

Following our new family motto (“Make do or do without”), I made coffee the only way I could think of – on the stove.  No French press here, folks; though it was from this concept that I borrowed inspiration. I boiled grounds and water on the stove, strained them through a paper towel into my cup, and quaffed the result.  It was an altogether messy procedure; but the ends absolutely justified the means.    

Granted, this is not the most exciting of adventures, nor the most impressive of “make do’s,” but when one can no longer jump into the car and hit the local mega coffee chain, or pop into a certain red bull’s eye conglomerate for the necessary ingredients, it is one with a happy I’m-gonna-be-a-mountain-woman-yet ending. 

I lift my stove-top coffee to you today, reader.  Thanks for stopping by!