Return to Reality

It is disappointing that my local barista doesn't do artwork.

How lucky I am to afford to escape the hellish heat of Arizona in the summer. At some point, though, I must return to Arizona, and although the heat is no longer hellish, the air is hot and dry, the porch covered in dust, the plants and even the rocks begging for moisture.

Mike and I spent two weeks traveling Iceland, then three weeks road-tripping up the California-Oregon coast, wandering to Portland and returning through Boise. Within days we were on a flight to Chicago, normally just over three hours but on this day fifteen. We planned to spend five weeks in the Midwest.

In every location, the weather fluctuations from perfect to miserable forced our living in the moment, knowing that whatever we were experiencing was short-lived. Now we are home with predictable weather patterns of hot and dry.

But weather isn’t the only thing we escaped. We gave ED and her boy/s (Blue Boy is away at school most of the time) their own space and couple-time for Mike and me.

Riding home from the airport yesterday, hoping to counteract several weeks of uncontrolled eating and imbibing, I mentally arranged a Monday morning of yoga, coffee, and pickleball followed by catch-up phone calls and writing and preparing for a trip to Puerto Peñasco this week. Between the ride home and going to bed, yoga fell off the calender with coffee at home before pickleball. To be ready, I went to the kitchen to prepare the coffeemaker for my morning joe. There a glass carafe with burnt remains, dried grounds in the filter, and a grungy hot plate greeted me. Okay, the hot plate was already grungy. But I know I had not left the coffeemaker in such a state.

I added baking soda and vinegar to the carafe, rinsing it before placing it in the dishwasher with the filter. A razor blade removed the smallest of remnants on the hot plate, bits equal in size to the tastes of ice cream my granddaughter offers. The size of a pea. A baby pea.

Two attempts to clean the plate with baking soda and vinegar and scrubbing with steel wool improved the condition but not to my standards. I set it to soak overnight. As an afterthought, I inspected the innards of the maker. The sight of dried coffee coating all surfaces drained me of hope. I would tackle that tomorrow; the coffee, I would walk to Circle K , known for its excellent brew, for carry out. Forget pickleball.

I woke in the morning, delaying my excursion to Circle K with time outdoors for games, reading, and meditation. Annoyed by the sounds of traffic, my skin puckering dehydrating in the heat and dust, I scratched the walk to Circle K and tackled the elephant in the kitchen. As water dripped from the coffeemaker, I questioned the usefulness of my actions and plugged it in to assure it worked. Disappointingly, it did. I continued scrubbing, removing another pea or two, until setting it aside. I threw on some clothes and drove to the local coffee shop, a pleasant local business which, like all shops these days, charges a fortune for a delightful latte in a charming setting.

Honestly, I have never liked my coffee maker. It is a four-cup carafe of a reputable brand, perfect for me since I am the only coffee drinker. Or so I thought. It does not make the best coffee, leaving me yearning for the addictive Starbucks variety. That I heat the cup of coffee in the microwave before drinking it leads me to suspect it does not get hot enough.

As I sip my $6+ latte here in the Brew Box, I am contemplating forking out some real money for a decent coffee maker. Or use the 12-cup I have stored away for guests.

Decisions. I find them harder to make as I age. I find myself easily distracted by them. My intentions are good, my dreams big, but see-through is difficult. According to Facebook memes, I am not alone. It takes discipline to follow a routine when retired, when time seems endless but mortality hovers nearby.