Thursday, October 16, 2014

Zoe vs. the Keurig
(plus an ode)

Coffee, beautiful life-giving coffee. It is my second thought every morning when I wake up, my first being an inarticulate scream.
We have a regular coffeemaker and a Keurig. Two ways to get my fix. One thing standing in my way: a cranky four-year-old who wakes up even worse than I do.

That's the stuff!

I'm not even talking about the out-there OCD rituals and demands that occur with unsettling regularity. Though they are troublesome.
I'm talking about something I did to myself. One early morning, when it was still dark so Zoe insisted on turning on our kitchen light then got upset because it was too bright and would neither stop crying or allow me to turn off the light, out of desperation I latched on to a way to distract her. 
"Zoe, would you like to make my coffee?" Since Zoe, like most small children, likes anything that smacks of adulthood, she immediately perked up. (Coffee references run like a caffeine-withdrawal fever dream through my unconscious.)
I handed her a K-cup then pressed the power button. She eyed me critically for a moment. Then pressed the power button, paused, then pressed it again so she could be the one to turn it on. (What ever had I been thinking?)
As we waited for the water to heat, I sprawled forward over the counter while she stared, saucer-eyed, at the machine, waiting for The Miracle. When the water was ready I showed her how to insert the K-cup, close the lid, then press the middle button, an operation that dragged on and on---she had to keep inserting the K-cup and taking it out, then closing and opening the lid. 
The road led to coffee, but it was a circuitous route, and one we then had to travel every day with all the attendant bumps and detours that you don't seem to encounter until a four-year-old is behind the wheel.

Much here beyond my reach.

The offer once made could not be rescinded so now there's no getting my coffee without her "help." If I try, the sound of the machine gives me away, and though a mug of coffee is produced, it will most certainly be cold by the time I'm done making amends for my crime. By then she can make me a fresh one.
As is my wont, my suffering has inspired me to write bad poetry. This time I was moved to ruin Keats.
Heat that day-old sludge in the microwave and enjoy!

Ode on a Coffee Urn
Thou Keurig sitting on my countertop
Keats died young.
Coffee could've saved him.
Thou delivery system for my hit
What obstacle 'tis this, neath towhead mop
Lying athwart me and having a fit?
   Too early this, the sun is not yet up
   Through fogged mind, I fasten upon a cue
   A way to make my interests her care
   A plan that promises to fill my cup
   With Goddess Java, that heavenly brew.
   Forever will I love and it be fair.* (Also: far.)

Thoughts of French roast are sweet but the real deal
Is better. Therefore coax overwrought child
With K-cup, upon kitchen stool to kneel.
She is now slowness where before was wild.
   Forever thou seemst to dwell, beyond reach
   To a four-year-old's pace I am in thrall
   Oh how I wish that faster she would go,
   But speed is not a thing that one can teach
   Coffee is truth, truth coffee, that is all
   Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.

Zoe: 65; Universe: 0
* Italics for lines from actual poem. Old English-major habits die hard. 


  1. No good deed....

  2. Truer words... ;)

  3. "Thoughts of French roast are sweet but the real deal
    Is better. "

    It always saddens me to no known bounds when coffee and a good person aren't allowed no way to make a deep connection.

  4. "Circuitous route" - truth. That's my whole day.

  5. If you substitute "the feyonce" for "Zoe" then this is pretty much exactly my life. On the weekends, at least.

  6. That's because you're a sensitive soul.

  7. I feel your pain.

  8. Feyonce better check himself. Unless, of course, he brings it to you in bed.

  9. I could not love this more. I don't miss my son's little person days. Now, he is 17 and makes coffee. There is hope. :)

  10. At least there's hope!

  11. Old English-major habits do indeed die hard. I remember this stage well. Now my children make their own food, and have no interest in helping with mine. I am still trying to train the dog to fetch wine. He sucks.

  12. Is he old? Or perhaps an old English major? Both are impervious to change!