I have this little coffee pot. It's different than the one a lot people have. It doesn't require electricity, it doesn't have a water tank, it doesn't need paper filters, and it doesn't have any buttons or gizmos. It's simple. All you need is water, coffee and fire. And maybe something to hold it above a fire.
When it was new, it was a marvel. Silver and shiny, the metal gleaming from the perfection of never being used. It came with three metal parts, a reservoir on the bottom for water, a funneled coffee filter that nestles into the water chamber and a pitcher on top to collect the coffee. The three pieces meet in the middle and fit together in a threaded column. A slender handle and a tiny knob on the lid made out of black plastic provide safe places to touch and peek at the progress of the brewing coffee. It is small and only makes one cup.
Most people would take one look at this little contraption and think it was a joke. In a world of having the newest, best and greatest, I have an Italian stovetop coffee pot that was popular in the sixties and is still widely used in Europe and South America. Everyone knows how to press buttons and make coffee, but no one gets how to use this little coffee pot of mine. And that's fine by me.
One day, after a few years of using it, a friend of mine who was staying overnight in my apartment decided to try it out, I gave her a tutorial, I explained all the components, all she had to do was follow my instructions. What I didn't make clear to her is that even though it seems like an archaic thing, like it will take forever to brew one cup of coffee, it's actually very fast. So when she set it on the stove, she walked away for a while and the plastic handle melted from a larger than needed flame. She apologized profusely and bought me a new coffeepot to replace the one she felt she ruined. I tried to insist it was fine, sure the handle was a little misshapen, was less shiny from years of use, but it essentially still worked.
I continued to use my little coffee pot. The new one sat in its box for a long time until I decided I would send it to him, my love, my moon and share with him a small pleasure I'd found in life, making coffee with this little coffee pot. I was excited to send it to him as a housewarming gift and finally put the unneeded extra coffee pot in the hands of someone who would use it and appreciate it.
The day after I sent it to him, as I set out to make my coffee that morning, I suffered the cheery blathering of my roommate and as I grumbled to myself, distracted by her loud theater voice and ridiculous airs, I neglected to fill the water chamber and set my little coffee pot on the stove. As my roommate pranced about the kitchen in her mismatched shabby clothing that was her idea of pajamas and expunged on the latest man she felt might become her husband someday, I waited patiently for my coffee to brew. I waited and waited. I pulled up on the little knob and saw nothing inside the pitcher. I checked the flame. I wondered. I knew something was wrong, but my roommate was filling my attentions with idle chatter and I was too tired to realize what was going on.
Finally the smell of burning plastic began to rise to my nose. She smelled it too, but she kept talking. I touched my fingers to the knob on top of the lid to the pitcher and it skated slightly on the surface of the metal, loosened by heat. I turned off the flame and fretted and still she kept talking. I reached for the handle and watched it completely separate from the pitcher, sliding off and hitting the stove with a clunk. And still she kept talking.
Later, after the smell cleared, the kitchen emptied, I discovered my error, but it was too late, I had burned the pot, melted off the handle and ruined my coffee pot and given away a perfectly good new one that I'd never used.
And still, I kept using it. Now I had to use a kitchen towel to hold the pot as I poured it into a cup, but otherwise it still worked fine. Maybe it didn't look so good, maybe I had to be careful not to burn myself pouring it but it still worked just fine.
I'm telling you this so you understand something. Sometimes life is like a little coffee pot. And I'm stuck using the run down broken coffee pot because essentially it still works and seems wasteful to throw away, and no one understands why I'm doing this to myself, day after day making coffee in this debilitated machine, when I could just throw it away and get a new one.
Because that's not who I am.
My love endeavored to get me a new coffee pot, as a gift, to replace this one, the one that I use without regret every day, happy it still works despite my absentmindedness. He was ultimately unsuccessful because the little coffee pot I prefer is not widely available, certain small retail shops carry it, but despite his best efforts, he couldn't find any places that carried it. I appreciated the gesture and mostly that even though he wanted to replace something that to me seemed unnecessary, at the very least he understands me well enough to know not to buy me a big fancy gizmo coffeepot. Because that is really not who I am.
His efforts left me wondering. His frustration at using my little coffee pot led him to want to get me a new one. How much of life do I allow to be unworkable, at a disadvantage, defunct? And why? He thinks I deserve a working coffee pot and he not only tried in vain to get me one, he has me finally reconsidering using this one, the burned, scarred, ruined one I've used for over a year in this dilapidated condition. So now I can still be a person who loves my little coffee pot, but it doesn't have to be a ruined coffee pot anymore. I've embraced the run down coffee pot for long enough. It's time to get a new one.
