Percolate
Jan 9 2014
Before the morning ritual.
Before the hot brown liquid
in its heavy mug.
Before the caffeinated buzz,
I loved
the smell of fresh ground coffee.
Supermarkets were modest, back then,
not much bigger than a storefront
sandwiched-in
to a busy city strip.
Shopping day,
and I was just a kid, tagging along.
In the A&P, there was a big red machine,
conjuring up
Before the morning ritual.
Before the hot brown liquid
in its heavy mug.
Before the caffeinated buzz,
I loved
the smell of fresh ground coffee.
Supermarkets were modest, back then,
not much bigger than a storefront
sandwiched-in
to a busy city strip.
Shopping day,
and I was just a kid, tagging along.
In the A&P, there was a big red machine,
conjuring up
that heady aroma
from darkly roasted beans –
into the funnel
from darkly roasted beans –
into the funnel
hard brown nubs, circling down
steel grinders, revving up
steel grinders, revving up
with the smooth powerful
sound
of heavy machinery.
Until fresh grounds came pouring out
in a silky stream
I breathed-in, and in
long, and deep.
And imagined how it would be
to drink such ambrosia.
The entire store
was redolent
of freshly ground,
the stingy aisles, and dark linoleum floor,
men in hats, who mostly smoked.
The sturdy cashier,
punching in each price
one-handed
on a big clattering machine,
before scanners
and muted beeps.
The rite of passage
in my early teens
to the grown-up drink,
percolating in slowly building burps
to its frenzied beat,
hints of bitter, a little burned.
The intoxicating smell
of freshly ground beans,
infusing the kitchen with warmth.
Now, of course, it's a health food, apparently full of virtuous anti-oxidants. And we are able to be reassured it's fair trade, and organic. And it's made in a filter, or gently pressed; never recirculated, boiled, or burned. So we have better coffee, but have lost the sensuous sound of the perk, as well as the redolence of percolating coffee that used to fill the house.
I have no idea why I loved that smell so much: at such a young age, and before I had ever even tasted. All I know is I couldn't wait to be permitted to drink the stuff. And even though it was bitter, at first, and probably smelled better than it tasted, I wasn't disappointed; in fact, enthusiastic enough to have always taken it black: uncompromised, unadulterated.
Of course, the taste alone hardly explains our love of coffee. It's the buzz of caffeine that does it: the powerful association of caffeine with all the other attributes of coffee -- its taste and smell and heat and colour, and even its ritual -- that ingrains our desire. In other words, coffee and the caffeine that goes with it is a kind of genteel and socially acceptable addiction.
I recently learned that bees remember their flowers better under the influence of caffeine. It's a memory drug. Which is good for plants, and so explains why some have been selected through evolution to manufacture caffeine, despite the metabolic cost of making such a complicated chemical. And which explains the well-known buzz of caffeine on its human drinkers: why we feel more alert and creative with caffeine on board, why we learn better under its influence. Most of the chemical plants produce are toxins, intended to repel predatory insects and grazing animals (the neurotoxin nicotine, for example). But to reproduce, plants also have to attract pollinating creatures. So it's no accident that a chemical randomly found in certain plants works so well in an animal brain. All coffee drinkers should be grateful for the reproductive imperative and subtle intelligence of plants! ...I was going to try to get this idea into the poem, but it really didn't work: it was starting to sound more like a fun fact in a science textbook than poetry. Although, in a way, caffeine is in all my poems: after all, I can't imagine a better performance enhancing drug for writers (notwithstanding all the alcoholics who have won the Nobel for literature!)
The poem is also a bit of an exercise in nostalgia. Even when I was in university, which would have been the late 70s, I remember those small downtown supermarkets, which were a little dingy, and not much bigger than a modern convenience store; certainly nothing like the gigantic supermarkets of today, anchoring vast suburban malls: bright and airy food emporiums that are stocked to over-flowing, and full of exotic offerings. And earlier than that (late 50s, early 60s or so) when men wore hats and people smoked everywhere; and when cash registers clattered at the hands of strong-armed ladies, and the shelves had just the basics, like cans of peas and sliced white bread. There were no UPCs, no ingredient lists, no nutritional information, and no generic (or store) brands. I could have gone on with this (as I'm doing here!), but restrained myself; which is always a good thing in poetry.
Until fresh grounds came pouring out
in a silky stream
I breathed-in, and in
long, and deep.
And imagined how it would be
to drink such ambrosia.
The entire store
was redolent
of freshly ground,
the stingy aisles, and dark linoleum floor,
men in hats, who mostly smoked.
The sturdy cashier,
punching in each price
one-handed
on a big clattering machine,
before scanners
and muted beeps.
The rite of passage
in my early teens
to the grown-up drink,
percolating in slowly building burps
to its frenzied beat,
hints of bitter, a little burned.
The intoxicating smell
of freshly ground beans,
infusing the kitchen with warmth.
Now, of course, it's a health food, apparently full of virtuous anti-oxidants. And we are able to be reassured it's fair trade, and organic. And it's made in a filter, or gently pressed; never recirculated, boiled, or burned. So we have better coffee, but have lost the sensuous sound of the perk, as well as the redolence of percolating coffee that used to fill the house.
I have no idea why I loved that smell so much: at such a young age, and before I had ever even tasted. All I know is I couldn't wait to be permitted to drink the stuff. And even though it was bitter, at first, and probably smelled better than it tasted, I wasn't disappointed; in fact, enthusiastic enough to have always taken it black: uncompromised, unadulterated.
Of course, the taste alone hardly explains our love of coffee. It's the buzz of caffeine that does it: the powerful association of caffeine with all the other attributes of coffee -- its taste and smell and heat and colour, and even its ritual -- that ingrains our desire. In other words, coffee and the caffeine that goes with it is a kind of genteel and socially acceptable addiction.
I recently learned that bees remember their flowers better under the influence of caffeine. It's a memory drug. Which is good for plants, and so explains why some have been selected through evolution to manufacture caffeine, despite the metabolic cost of making such a complicated chemical. And which explains the well-known buzz of caffeine on its human drinkers: why we feel more alert and creative with caffeine on board, why we learn better under its influence. Most of the chemical plants produce are toxins, intended to repel predatory insects and grazing animals (the neurotoxin nicotine, for example). But to reproduce, plants also have to attract pollinating creatures. So it's no accident that a chemical randomly found in certain plants works so well in an animal brain. All coffee drinkers should be grateful for the reproductive imperative and subtle intelligence of plants! ...I was going to try to get this idea into the poem, but it really didn't work: it was starting to sound more like a fun fact in a science textbook than poetry. Although, in a way, caffeine is in all my poems: after all, I can't imagine a better performance enhancing drug for writers (notwithstanding all the alcoholics who have won the Nobel for literature!)
The poem is also a bit of an exercise in nostalgia. Even when I was in university, which would have been the late 70s, I remember those small downtown supermarkets, which were a little dingy, and not much bigger than a modern convenience store; certainly nothing like the gigantic supermarkets of today, anchoring vast suburban malls: bright and airy food emporiums that are stocked to over-flowing, and full of exotic offerings. And earlier than that (late 50s, early 60s or so) when men wore hats and people smoked everywhere; and when cash registers clattered at the hands of strong-armed ladies, and the shelves had just the basics, like cans of peas and sliced white bread. There were no UPCs, no ingredient lists, no nutritional information, and no generic (or store) brands. I could have gone on with this (as I'm doing here!), but restrained myself; which is always a good thing in poetry.
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