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Thanks to the season's first snowfall I was able to spare my family the ugly truth. As they cavorted in the snow with our chocolate lab I made a conscious choice not to join them. I've earned this small window of quiet time...the candle lit, lofty wisps of pan flute floating through the speakers of the kitchen computer. It was just me and my espresso machine - together...the two of us. No national disasters declared on third degree bagel burns, who unloaded the dishwasher last or smug remarks on the attention that my morning mocha ritual depends. My twelve year old refers to it as the Pythagorean brew.
The rub here is that I pride myself in my finely honed pioneering skills. And because pioneers didn't have Starbucks Espresso Roast coffee therein lies my basic dilemma. The success or failure of days without power teeter delicately on the blood/particulate ratio containing just enough of the finely ground bean. The simple grounds and boiling water comprising pioneer coffee no longer suffices. I took that last step into no return sometime last February thinking, "I'll just treat myself to a homemade mocha just this once." The problem is that once high test is introduced on a regular basis the rest is just...well...brown water.
With the quiet excitement of what seemed to be my first morning alone since starting a family twelve years ago, I retrieved my implements, heated up the elements, inventoried my ingredients and with a mere 500 Watt light-dimming draw was able to froth, reheat and summon the perfect hazelnut foam over which any barista would gleam with pride. Until that is, the slow motion moment when I watched my morning unravel into a potential disaster. In fell the espresso glass to the vat of hot chocolate. My day loomed in peril.
"How can I save this?", my pounding heart and wide eyes conveyed. And this is when my McGyver surfaced. I moved all impediments and as any 21st century pioneer, espresso paramedic would do I performed mouth to counter resuscitation and slurped the four tablespoons of sweet nectar off the counter. No sticky residue, no trace. With everyone frolicking in the new fallen snow I spared all of my weak moment and my euphoric buzz continued as previously scheduled.
I am not ready to relinquish this blissful landmass in the torrential sea of parenthood. That is until we run out of power...where blood-espresso levels reach dangerously low proportions and my head seeks mercy in the week-long detox of tortured abstinence. Where is the joy in that? It is the first time that I honestly questioned how happy and productive life would be without it. As early as the night prior when I am making dinner or attempting to leave no trace in the kitchen for the following morning...I am buoyed with thoughts of 7am mocha bordering on legal statues and limitations that beg the question, "How much is too much?" My 5'11" hums at optimum capacity when fueled by a quadruple venti mocha. On most days my alacrity abounds in smooth steady strides, rhythmic joy and free flowing heart-centered smiles. Rooms get painted, laundry gets washed, beds get made, dog gets tended. School lunches, lawn mowed...The invincibility so systemic there are some days that my mind thinks I am deserving of a cape, ethereally crecendoing theme music and the moniker Haus Frau Superhero.
Now... I have written posts about my mocha in the past. Yet, three years later it is a topic that is worthy of addressing again as I proclaim my steadfast dependency and how my world revolves around the espresso roasted bean. The black, three-foot power cord to my espresso maker is one of the few things that keeps me tethered to the virtues of living in a house. Pondering my life without caffeine deposits me somewhere in the woods hiking for countless miles until the Universe courses through my veins with unbridled amperage. Yet the responsibilities as a mom have led me to this place of worship; The red light that turns green to indicate brew ready status is my mindful reminder that this vulnerability is a choice. I choose to surrender to the conveniences that cultivate the seat of modern vices and the beauty that espresso bestows to my inner core. Quite simply, this choice requires a generator.
In the aftermath of Hurricane Irene and most recently Hurricane Sandy we tasted of life without the convenience of electricity. Hosted in such mild temperatures we were left largely unscathed when compared to the affects this storm would have incurred had it been nestled into pipe-freezing temperatures. As Hurricane Sandy approached the Northeast, we sat hovered around the glow of the ipad researching generators where we left off in the aftermath of Hurricane Irene. Although "submit order" was 12 months delayed we are now assured that when Hurricane Zena: Warrior Princess arrives you can bet that mocha and hot showers will be on tap until I siphon my trusty, Suburban steed dry.
The rub here is that I pride myself in my finely honed pioneering skills. And because pioneers didn't have Starbucks Espresso Roast coffee therein lies my basic dilemma. The success or failure of days without power teeter delicately on the blood/particulate ratio containing just enough of the finely ground bean. The simple grounds and boiling water comprising pioneer coffee no longer suffices. I took that last step into no return sometime last February thinking, "I'll just treat myself to a homemade mocha just this once." The problem is that once high test is introduced on a regular basis the rest is just...well...brown water.
With the quiet excitement of what seemed to be my first morning alone since starting a family twelve years ago, I retrieved my implements, heated up the elements, inventoried my ingredients and with a mere 500 Watt light-dimming draw was able to froth, reheat and summon the perfect hazelnut foam over which any barista would gleam with pride. Until that is, the slow motion moment when I watched my morning unravel into a potential disaster. In fell the espresso glass to the vat of hot chocolate. My day loomed in peril.
"How can I save this?", my pounding heart and wide eyes conveyed. And this is when my McGyver surfaced. I moved all impediments and as any 21st century pioneer, espresso paramedic would do I performed mouth to counter resuscitation and slurped the four tablespoons of sweet nectar off the counter. No sticky residue, no trace. With everyone frolicking in the new fallen snow I spared all of my weak moment and my euphoric buzz continued as previously scheduled.
I am not ready to relinquish this blissful landmass in the torrential sea of parenthood. That is until we run out of power...where blood-espresso levels reach dangerously low proportions and my head seeks mercy in the week-long detox of tortured abstinence. Where is the joy in that? It is the first time that I honestly questioned how happy and productive life would be without it. As early as the night prior when I am making dinner or attempting to leave no trace in the kitchen for the following morning...I am buoyed with thoughts of 7am mocha bordering on legal statues and limitations that beg the question, "How much is too much?" My 5'11" hums at optimum capacity when fueled by a quadruple venti mocha. On most days my alacrity abounds in smooth steady strides, rhythmic joy and free flowing heart-centered smiles. Rooms get painted, laundry gets washed, beds get made, dog gets tended. School lunches, lawn mowed...The invincibility so systemic there are some days that my mind thinks I am deserving of a cape, ethereally crecendoing theme music and the moniker Haus Frau Superhero.
Now... I have written posts about my mocha in the past. Yet, three years later it is a topic that is worthy of addressing again as I proclaim my steadfast dependency and how my world revolves around the espresso roasted bean. The black, three-foot power cord to my espresso maker is one of the few things that keeps me tethered to the virtues of living in a house. Pondering my life without caffeine deposits me somewhere in the woods hiking for countless miles until the Universe courses through my veins with unbridled amperage. Yet the responsibilities as a mom have led me to this place of worship; The red light that turns green to indicate brew ready status is my mindful reminder that this vulnerability is a choice. I choose to surrender to the conveniences that cultivate the seat of modern vices and the beauty that espresso bestows to my inner core. Quite simply, this choice requires a generator.
In the aftermath of Hurricane Irene and most recently Hurricane Sandy we tasted of life without the convenience of electricity. Hosted in such mild temperatures we were left largely unscathed when compared to the affects this storm would have incurred had it been nestled into pipe-freezing temperatures. As Hurricane Sandy approached the Northeast, we sat hovered around the glow of the ipad researching generators where we left off in the aftermath of Hurricane Irene. Although "submit order" was 12 months delayed we are now assured that when Hurricane Zena: Warrior Princess arrives you can bet that mocha and hot showers will be on tap until I siphon my trusty, Suburban steed dry.
Ask Yourself:
How can I close the gap between my
vulnerability and empowerment?
